Four Corners of Middle-Earth
by kkolmakov
Summary: At the brink of the War of the Ring, at the shores of Southern Gondor, Lothiriel, the Princess of Dol Amroth, encounters a long dead King of Erebor Dwarves, and a woman of Men. The lives of the three of them, as well as of Eomer, of the House of Eorl, will intertwine through the war, through the perils, and the days of joy to come [Best read after my Hobbit FF "Me Without You"]
1. An Encounter

**Author's Note:**

 **This story is best read as a sequel to my Hobbit fic _Me Without You._ I'm aware it is 110 chapter long - oh my, how did that happen? - so if you are not feeling like it, just peek into the description. **

**This story will also feature my OC Wren, the beloved of Thorin Oakenshield, and the King Under the mountain himself, and yes, I know it's been 70 years. But that's what FF is all about! :) Magic and fandom liberties! :)**

 **Everything will be explained with time. And I hope you enjoy the journey!**

 **Allons-y, my darlings!**

 **Love,**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

Lothiriel stepped on the deck of the light schooner that had been her temporary shelter for the last two moons. She loved the fresh and salty air of the sea, and she gathered lungfuls.

"My lady, another half a day, and we are back home," the ship captain announced gleefully, and she gave the man a warm smile.

Lothiriel's visit to the islands West of Dol Amroth had been a success, and she was returning home full of pride and expectations of praise from her father. She could not wait to see her kin, especially her brothers. And with all honesty, she could not wait to sleep out of her chainmail and with unwavering ground underneath her. As much as she enjoyed sea travels, nothing brought her more joy that being surrounded by the loyal walls of her home. Worry, as well, was gnawing at her heart. The world was growing perilous; unrest grew in all parts of Arda.

"A ship!" a sailor in the crow's nest suddenly screamed. "I see black sails!"

Lothiriel's hand lay on the hilt of her sword unconsciously.

"Corsairs?" she asked the captain in a hushed voice, and saw alarm colour his features.

"All hands on deck!" the captain ordered, and sailors rushed around Lothiriel. She stepped out of the way, worrying her lip.

Soon, she could see the ship on the horizon, as it was approaching fast. The triangle of the sail was indeed of a darker tone, and she could see a banner thrash on the mast. She thought she recognised the crest of one the Umbar Warlords.

"At least they are alone, no Haradrim filth," the captain muttered under his breath. "But what are they doing so close to the shore?"

"Their ship is fast," the first mate stepped closer to the captain and Lothiriel, and they formed a tight circle speaking in hushed voices. "I would say it is a scouting mission."

"Or a waylaying one," the captain answered, and threw Lothiriel a meaningful look. "If the islanders betrayed us and sent them a note, they know you are on this ship, my lady." Lothiriel exhaled sharply in anguish.

"It would make sense," the first mate spoke gravely. "One fast ship, a swift attack, and they have the Princess of Dol Amroth for ransom."

"Can we outrun them?" Lothiriel asked, and the dark expressions on the men's faces gave her the answer.

"There are a few more hours travel to the port." The captain shook his head. "Unless..."

"Aye?" the Princess asked, and the men exchanged looks. "Well, what is it?"

"There is a bay nearby. We can try reaching it. It is tricky, the arms are narrow, and full of steep cliffs, but we could manage."

"Then do it." Lothiriel commanded firmly, and the captain nodded. "They might withdraw if they see us go for the bay. They hardly will be willing to fight on land."

* * *

Lothiriel had been wrong. The Umbar ship had pursued them relentlessly, and even when they entered the narrow mouth of the bay, it followed. The corsairs had an additional advantage in the circumstances - their ship was narrower and lighter, and as they chased the schooner, they did not need to maneuver between the underwater cliffs and ridges.

Lothiriel could already see the sandy shore of the bay, when a deafening crack and a jerk of the ship's hull let the failure of their captain be known. A long wide shoal lay underneath them, and the sailors saw small light boats separate from the Umbar ship and rush towards them.

A fight started on the decks, and blood spilled. The assailants were numerous, blood thirsty, and the sailors were suffering defeat.

When almost none were left standing, the corsair captain placed the final blow across the first mate's chest, and the man fell, heaving, blood colouring his lips.

"Where is she? Where is the Princess?" the corsair asked, but the sailor only spat in response.

* * *

Lothiriel crawled out of the water, coughing, her limbs aching, and lungs painful in her chest. She was an exceptional swimmer, but even for her the distance was trialing. She had left her armour on the schooner, but her sword was clasped to her back, and now weighed on her like a rock.

She could hear screams from the schooner, and quickly looked back. Judging by the corsair boat now rowing towards the shore, her escape had been discovered. She pushed herself to get up and rushed towards the pines on the far end of the beach. She knew this part of the shore was uninhibited. She had only herself to rely on.

She ran, weaving between the pines, her wet boots slipping on the needles and the grass, but she knew she had little chance to escape. Whatever advantage she had gained was now quickly dissipating. The men behind her had their strength, she had just swam the distance that made every muscle in her body burn in agony.

She could already hear noise behind her - boots stomping, and harsh voices barking - when she suddenly dug her heels into the ground. She stood on the edge of a steep sandy gully, the slope going sharply down. Lothiriel looked back, and saw the first corsair appear from between pines. She squeezed her eyes and lunged ahead.

She rolled down, protecting her sides, and minding the blade on her back, and landed at the bottom relatively unscathed. The men hesitated on the top, and she jumped on her feet and rushed along the tiny trickle of stream at the bottom. She knew it would only be moments before they followed. The walls on her two sides were growing taller, and soon she realised she was running through a narrow cleft in the rocks.

Air was entering her lungs, seemingly cutting them with myriads of blades, and her legs gave in twice already. She would fall, and rise, and run again, her knees now bleeding, cut by the sharp rocks under her feet. The voices behind her grew louder, and fear grasped at her heart.

The cleft made a sharp turn, and Lothiriel pushed with the last effort of her body and spirit. She dashed along its curve, around a large granite boulder, and came to a sudden stop, frozen from the view that entered to her eyes.

* * *

Two people stood in the narrow passage in front of her. Both were short, hardly reaching Lothiriel's chest. The woman was slender and of Men, clad in some heavy opulent garments, unfamiliar to Lothiriel. The Man was probably a Dwarf - although Lothiriel had encountered too few of them to be certain. Long dark locks lay on his shoulders and back, almost covering a long wide scabbard on his back.

"And I am telling you, I am not leaving my crown in some forsaken sandy ditch!" the woman said and pushed a large golden crown under his nose.

"It is your coronation one! You never fancied it anyway!" the Dwarf answered in a grumpy tone, and then both of them turned and looked at Lothiriel. She noted the freckles on the woman's angular face, and the Dwarf's prominent nose, and the black beard, braided at the end, and decorated with splendid beads.

And at that moment the corsairs appeared around the curve of the crevice.

Lothiriel jerked her sword out of the scabbard, wondering whether she had just gained the second group of enemies, when the Dwarf shifted, shielding the red haired woman. His wide Dwarven sword was already firmly clasped in his right hand.

"Umbar corsairs," he snarled through gritted teeth, and the woman peeked from around his wide frame.

"Aye," she agreed. "The question is why you are pushing me aside. I can fight, you know."

"I have not touched you," the man grumbled, and Lothiriel wondered whether the two of them were mad. The corsairs were slowly approaching, and the Dwarf and the woman were bickering like an old married couple! Their behaviour was apparently puzzling even to the attackers, since they were exchanging confused looks.

"We also do not know if your magic had returned with us, ushaktul," the Dwarf said, and the woman huffed the air out in irritation.

"There is only one way to find out," she announced haughtily, and stepped ahead.

The woman lifted her hands, in a strange gesture, splaying her fingers and palms, as if planning to push the corsairs back, and then Lothiriel could not hold back a cry of astonishment. Some sort of golden glow grew in the centers of the woman's palms, and then tongues, sharp and slithering, grew out of them, and rushed towards the corsairs.

The first wave of the golden glow hit the nearest attacker into his chest, and the others thrashed, screams of panic escaping some of them. Two of them nonetheless rushed ahead, only to meet a quick and bloody demise at the feet of the Dwarf. The double loop of his blade cut them down like a woodcutter's axe chopped down young trees.

The man hit by the woman's bewildering golden flames flew about twenty steps backwards, and his body slammed into a rocky side of the cleft. The woman jerked her hands back.

"Mahal help me, that was mighty!" She shook her hands, as if trying to dry them of water. "I have not been able to wield that much in years."

"You have been dead in years," the Dwarf grumbled, wiping his blade, and looked at the quickly disappearing corsairs. And then his bright blue eyes shifted onto Lothiriel, who still stood frozen, her sword limply hanging in her hand. "Good day, fair maiden. And who would you be?"

"I am… Gilraen." Lothiriel quickly conjured a lie. "Gilraen, daughter of Hallas."

"And a liar," the woman chimed in, in a teasing tone, and Lothiriel shifted her eyes at her.

The redhead was an oddity: the features were sharp, her eyes slanted and of strange greenish hazel colour, her mouth wide and red lipped. Her face was kind though, and presently glowing with a mischievous smile.

"You do not have to give us your name, child," the woman spoke warmly. "But the royal crest of Dol Amroth on your hilt is a wee bit telling." Lothiriel took a small step back. "Worry not, we are no danger for you. We are… lost, and hardly know ourselves who and where we are."

"Or when," the Dwarf added, and Lothiriel frowned not understanding. "What year is it, my lady?" He had a low melodic voice, and there was noble kindness glimmering in his eyes as well.

"It is Year 3018," Lothiriel drew out, shifting her eyes between the two in front of her.

"And who rules the Kingdom Under the Mountain?" asked the Dwarf, and Lothiriel gave him a confused look.

"Do you mean the Dwarven Kingdom far North?"

"How far North? Where are we?" he asked and looked around unnecessarily. They were after all locked between two steep sides of rocky crevice.

"You are on the shores of the Thunder Bay, a day travel from Dol Amroth."

"And probably we should be moving, do we not?" the woman suddenly spoke up, and started pulling off her fur collared cloak. Underneath, she wore a heavy dress, of fern green velvet. In a strange gesture she looked herself over, as if she had not known what garment she had on. She then made a small frustrated noise. "Could we not have returned in more travel appropriate garments? You at least are wearing your brigandine." She pointed at the Dwarf. He looked down at himself in the same inexplicable inquisitive interest.

"We will talk dresses later, my heart." His harmless sardonic tone made the woman emit a strangely careless giggle. "Let us start walking. The corsairs might be back, and we still have to decide what we are doing here."

Lothiriel could not hold her bewilderment back any more.

"Do you not know why you are here? Have you been brought here in a box?!" she exclaimed, and the Dwarf suddenly boomed a low, earnest guffaw.

"You are not wrong, my lady. And as for your question, nay, we know not anything regarding our presence here."

"Last time at least there were instructions in the dream," the woman spoke mysteriously, widening her eye in exaggeration, and the Dwarf sighed out a long tragic sigh. Somehow Lothiriel felt the two of them were being dramatic to entertain each other.

"Would you mind joining us?" the woman offered to Lothiriel lightly. "We could use some explanation, and you look like you need companions. As well as perhaps a healer," she said softly and pointed at Lothiriel's knees. "I could help with that. I used to serve in an infirmary."

"Thank you, but we should haste." Lothiriel gave it a thought and pushed her sword back into her scabbard. "The city is that way." She pointed North West, and the Dwarf and the woman nodded. "And what are you names, kind sir and lady?" Lothriel was grasping for some sort of clarity in the situation, but the silent looks that the two people in front of her exchanged told her she would not receive any.

"We do not wish to lie to you, child," the woman spoke in a cordial tone. "But until we know what is happening, we would like to retain our privacy."

"Fair enough," Lothiriel agreed.

* * *

They started walking. At some point the woman grumbled something under her breath and shook off the outer layer of her dress, left only in a thin undertunic and the inner skirts. The day indeed was hot. The Dwarf soon left his coat behind as well, and Lothiriel skewed her eyes and watched the sun rays play on the plates of his brigandine. Something in the pattern of the mail and the crest on the buckle of his richly adorned belt seemed familiar.

Lothiriel then shifted her eyes and caught the laughing gaze of the redhead. Embarrassment flushed Lothiriel cheeks. It indeed could have seemed that she was ogling the Dwarf.

"Your crest..." Lothiriel hastily explained, and pointed on the same pattern that decorated the scabbard of the woman's much shorter sword. "I have seen it before. And your faces… The colouring of your hair..." She trailed away in bashfulness. She was, after all, hiding her identity as well. And now she was as much as prying.

"Aye, we are an unusual pair, are we not?" the woman snickered, and the man echoed with a low rumble of a chuckle.

"We are on a lot of tapestries after all, my heart. No wonder the maiden finds us familiar." Lothiriel noted that the two of them seemed to converse more between themselves than with her. She was suddenly reminded of the same manner in her parents' behaviour.

"Perhaps we are all but forgotten by now. It has been twenty years since..." the woman stopped herself, and made a vague gesture in the air with her hand. Gem adorned rings on her fingers sent flashes of light dance. "Mahal help me..." the woman continued pensively. "Twenty years… I wonder what they are like now..." Emotions splashed in her eyes, but then she shook the sudden agitation off. "But at the moment we have a more pressuring matter to attend. I am wearing feast shoes." She pulled the hem of her skirt up, and Lothiriel saw a delicate shoe, decorated with an elegant buckle with pearls and onyxes. The woman had exceptionally small feet.

"I can carry you," the Dwarf offered, and Lothiriel watched in shock one of his black eyebrows crawl up in a flirtatious gesture. The redhead giggled.

"Hm, look at you! All alive and kicking." The woman's voice dropped into a soft purr, and the eyebrow jerked higher.

Lothiriel felt her jaw slack ungracefully. By now, it was abundantly clear the Dwarf and the woman were lovers, and Lothiriel was still struggling with the notion.

"I will walk for now, but soon you might have to," the redhead said, resuming her fast pace, and patted the man's shoulder. "And so you know..." she added, lowering her voice, and then leaned close to his face. "Judging by the silver above your brow, I would say..." She made quite a spectacle out of studying his mane. Lothiriel looked as well, though not understanding what the woman was doing. "I would say couple years after the Battle of the Five Armies."

"Wonderful age," he rumbled in response, and the woman bit into her bottom lip flirtatiously. "Is it not the age when one usually meets a certain healer from Dale?" The woman snorted and bumped her shoulder to his. They were walking so quickly that Lothiriel - tired and perturbed - had difficulty keeping up. It was clear they had plenty of experience of travelling on foot together.

"And how do I look?" the redhead asked, and the Dwarf gave her a rather indecent look over, making sure it was noticed when his gaze slid below her waist, on the hips and the bottom.

"I would say you look the right age, twenty Springs or so." She smiled to him, and he quickly whispered into her ear, and although Lothiriel did not want to eavesdrop, she heard his low whisper, "The same firecracker."

The woman laughed, the Dwarf grinned lopsidedly, Lothiriel felt flustered, and they continued their journey in the same manner.

* * *

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 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

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 _Summary:_ A spinster librarian, the ghost of a 1900s British naval officer, and a Canadian dreamboat come together in a story that will make a harlequin novel pale in comparison when it comes to cliches, hackneyed turns of speech, and predictable plot twists.

Etta Ryan, a prude and a bluestocking, led on a journey to a mysterious place called Winnipeg, Manitoba, will encounter on her path an unnaturally attractive Canadian farmer, mysterious numbers disclosed to a long dead British officer at a medium seance, a treasure map, a secret cave, and much more. Welcome to the story where plot will make some sense, and erotica is abundant and gratuitous!

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 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	2. Parting of Ways

A few hours later Wren insisted that they sat down in a shade and had some rest. Judging by the fact that the girl was not arguing, and by how pale and weary her face was, Wren was right to assume that the maiden was at the end of her strength. All three of them had a drink from the nearest string, running its clear waters between the rocks, and then the girl sat down, leaning her back onto a pine. Wren sat not too far away, and discreetly studied their companion.

The girl was, put simply, beautiful. Her profile was noble and elegant, with its straight narrow bridge of a prominent nose, high cheekbones, large, steel grey eyes. She was of the local people, it seemed, and most likely of a noble ancestry. Wren judged by the few Gondorians she had seen in her lifetime. The thought led Wren's mind to the exact question of her life and her time. It had ended more than a dozen years ago, if the date the girl gave them was correct. And now Wren was sitting on a rock, warmed by the sun, not too far from Dol Amroth, while her husband was standing a few feet away from her, twirling his former sword, Deathless in his hand.

Wren looked at Thorin now. He was just as she remembered seeing him the first time, not in her dreams then, but upon his arrival to the Northmen village. With silver in his dark waves, his beard thick and almost black, his eyes bright and a pleased smile dancing on his lips, he looked no older than the two hundred year old Dwarf she married.

Wren looked at her hands. The skin was soft and clean, no wrinkles or spots she was used to seeing were present, and she flexed her fingers. They moves smoothly, no pains worried the joints. And yet, she could still remember so very clearly her hair being white and her body frail.

She had been ill then, for a few days before her departure. It was one of those fevers that made one's body ache head to toe. She felt weak and taxed, and was spending her days in their oaken bed. She remembered her sons' concerned faces, and the healer coming to visit her. It was all in haze then, she was burning, and her strength was slowly leaving her body. She felt peace, though. Unlike others, she did not worry. She had had a good life. The only matter she felt pained about was leaving Thorin behind. She could recall him sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers intertwined with her. His face was thinned, the hair - white as snow - lay on his shoulders. He was reaching the end of his time as well.

There had been a conversation between them, a few moons before her illness. They lay in bed then, and she asked him if he was afraid. He chuckled, his voice still low and velvet, having not lost its depth, and he looked at her from the corner of his eye.

'I have already been dead once, my heart. This time it is a much more pleasant affair.' She snorted and pressed her face to his shoulder.

'Just do not go before me,' she asked in a whisper, and he brushed his hand to her cheek gently.

'I cannot promise this, ushaktul. I would not want to stay here without you.'

'You are old. It will not be long,' she teased, and felt his hand give her bottom a squeeze.

'Impudent woman,' he rumbled, and she snorted.

Wren remembered the night she died. She woke up in her bed, with her husband lying near her, and suddenly the fever and the haze were gone, and she saw her bedroom clearly - the room where she slept, loved, gave birth, and would now find her final rest. She shifted her eyes then and saw the Moon. It was enormous, white and round, peeking through the colourful stained glass of her bedroom, and then Wren heard Thorin draw a sharp breath in. She turned, and their eyes met. His fingers found hers on the sheet, and they exhaled in unison. And then it was done.

"Are you alright, my heart?" Thorin's voice came from above, and she jerked out of her memories. She felt wetness on her cheeks, and hastily wiped off the tears.

"Aye, I am." Her voice was raspy and disobedient, and she cleared her throat. "Sit, please." She patted the boulder near her, and he obeyed. "We need to discuss our situation, Thorin. We are back, we are alive, and then just a few minutes after we awoke, we meet this girl. What is it? What have you done?" Her husband's eyebrows jumped up in surprise.

"What have I done? What do you mean?"

"Do not lie to me!" Wren whispered frantically. "You somehow ensured our return."

"I did no such thing." He smiled to her warmly. "This whole time I assumed it was you. Just like the time before, and perhaps once again by destroying an heirloom of my kin," he teased, little wrinkles running in the corners of his eyes.

"I did nothing." Wren frowned. "I remember our last night together, I looked into your face, and the Moon shone, and..."

"I remember it too," he interrupted her softly. "You were ill, and then I awoke in the middle of the night, and I looked in your eyes, and I drew my breath in, and it was..."

"Over," she finished for him, and pressed her hand over her mouth. Her heart was beating in her throat, and she bit into her bottom lip to stifle a sob.

"It was a good death, my heart," he whispered and pressed his lips to her temple. "Do not cry. I died looking into the eyes of the woman I loved..." Wren gasped.

"I died then too. It was my last breath as well… We passed together…" She could not hold it back anymore, and she lunged ahead, and pressed into him, her arms going around his neck. He returned the embrace, and the strength and the warmth radiating from him brought her relief. She sniffled, but then gathered her bearings. "Why are we here, Thorin?"

He did not respond, clearly not knowing the answer, and they sat for a few moments in silence. He then released her, and she studied his face. Unlike her, he did not seem agitated or perturbed.

"Are you enjoying this?" she asked in astonishment, the realisation dawning on her, and he grinned to her widely.

"Why would I not? It is my second time of an unnatural return. And this time I at least woke up on a beach and not alone, as opposed to banging at the lid of my grave from inside, for several hours, and then my sister prying the lid with my sword." Wren watched him jest in disbelief. "Do you think Thror still has it?"

"Still has what?" Wren's voice rose to a rather high pitch.

"Orcrist, of course. I left it to him. And I apparently was buried with this one." He patted the hilt of Deathless on his hip. "I cannot say I mind, but I would rather prefer the Elven blade."

"You are completely unaffected by this!" Wren flailed her hands in astoundment, and he caught them and pressed first one and then another to his lips. The second kiss was on the inside of her palm, and Wren looked at him in suspicion. Besides being in rather high spirits, he was also very flirtatious. She adored that trait of his when they lived, but it seemed hardly the time.

"I am affected by this, my little bird. I died - again - as a happy old man, and now I have my life, my strength, and my wife back. Do you expect me to complain?" He once again kissed her hand, this time on the inside of the wrist - the place they both knew was one of his favourites, and Wren blushed.

"Should we start walking again?" The girl's voice came, and Wren jerked her hands out of her husband's grip. He chuckled. She probably looked quite guilty.

Wren jumped at her feet and smoothed her now dirty skirt unnecessarily.

"We most definitely should," Wren spoke in a strict tone, and gave her husband a pointed look. He rose swiftly, no doubt parading his agility, and Wren pursed her lips. His mood and his frolics were contagious, but Wren reminded herself that at least one of them should stay sober.

* * *

They reached the city when the sun was low and red, and the girl confidently marched to a small side gate in the tall stone wall surrounding the fortress. A guard opened it after her loud knock. After a short conversation, which Wren and Thorin did not eavesdrop on out of the respect for the girl's privacy, three guards stepped out of the gates. One of them wrapped a cloak around the maiden's tall slender frame, the hood hiding her face. Wren threw her husband a meaningful look.

"Come," she invited them after her, some new authoritativeness in her voice.

"We will enter the city upon your invitation, my lady, but after that we should part ways," Thorin answered, and Wren whipped her head and looked at him in surprise. "We have enough gold to get along. We would only ask for two cloaks to hide our faces as well."

Wren felt an urge to argue. Whatever the reason for their return was, them meeting the girl could not have been a coincidence, and Wren felt unwilling to separate from her just yet. On the the other hand, they needed to sit and discuss their current position, as well as their plans.

The girl commanded the guards in Sindarin, and soon two cloaks lay in Wren's hands.

The maiden stepped to her.

"I thank you, both of you, for saving my life," she spoke gravely, and their eyes met. Wren smiled to her and nodded. "My name is Lothiriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil, the twenty second Prince of Dol Amroth. Consider me in your debt."

Wren felt touched by the girl's earnesty. She wondered if she should return the favour and give the maiden their names as well, but she knew not if it were wise. A thought came. She took off an opal ring off her finger - it was one of her favourites, given to her by her husband in the first year of their marriage. The colour of the stone matched her eyes, and Khuzdul runes ran the inside of the silver circle. "Nê nai'kir." _Never apart._

"Take this ring, Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil. One day I might ask for it back. If we ever to cross paths again, it will be the reminder of this day." Wren looked over the girl's solemn face. "And be merry. You are alive and home."

The girl nodded and turned to Thorin.

"I thank you, Master Dwarf, for saving my life. I am forever in your debt." She gave him a low bow, under the surprised stares from the guard. He returned the gesture with grace.

"It was an honour, fair maiden. I have had the honour of knowing your great grandfather, Angelimir, son of Aglahad. It is only a pleasure to aid the noble bloodline of Men."

"How do you know who I am?" the girl asked, clearly assuming her whisper to Wren was not overheard.

"He always knows everything. And hears everything. It grows rather taxing on one's nerves with decades," Wren answered, and the Dwarf chuckled. The girl looked back and forth between the two of them. "Go, child, the guards are waiting for you."

Wren suspected Lothiriel was not used to be called a 'child' since the maiden's brows hiked up in surprise, but no matter how young Wren looked, she did not feel like a simple girl of twenty Summers.

Lothiriel bowed to them again, and disappeared in the gates, followed by her guards. Wren and Thorin wrapped in their cloaks, and walked into Dol Amroth as well.

* * *

They found a large crowded tavern, quickly paid for food and a room, and hastily walked up the stairs into solars.

Wren entered the chamber, Thorin locked the door behind them. She turned to him, to ask whether he would agree to talk first and only then start on the fish stew they purchased, when he suddenly wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into embrace. She wondered whether he was feeling just as anxious as she was and craved warmth as well, when she realised his intentions.

He was pulling at the ties on her bodice, and she battered his hands away.

"Thorin! What are you doing?" He gave her a lopsided grin and caught the string between his fingers again.

"I did not expect you to forget." His tone was playful. "Have the happy memories of years of our marriage faded?" His other hand was spayed on her waist, fingers purposefully sliding down to her buttocks, and she pushed him away.

"We are alive! Back from the dead! Far from home, and we do not know the purpose! There are so many questions, and you are thinking of carnal pleasures!" she squeaked, industriously ignoring how her body answered to his call.

"Exactly so, my heart." His voice dropped even lower, into most seductive velvet. "We are back, we are alive, and we are no old relics anymore. I would like to savour it."

His eyes burnt, hunger and passion splashing in them; red spots flushed the cheekbones above the black beard; and Wren rushed ahead, catching his mouth, and pulling at the clasps on his brigandine. With each minute she was realising the strength and agility of her once again young body, and the greed for him was back.

They fell on the bed, their bodies intertwined as myriads times before, and Wren decided that sobriety and prudence would have to wait.

* * *

"That felt..." she murmured, and felt a warm chuckle shake his bare chest under her cheek.

"Familiar," he finished her words, and she giggled.

"Remember when you had been absent for six moons once, on a raid with the Skinchanger? And we laughed then that afterwards it was like learning each other from scratch?" He hummed confirming. Wren treaded fingers into his chest hair, splaying her hand on his warm sternum. "This felt even more thrilling." He cupped the back of her head and scratched it as if petting a feline. Both were aware how pleasurable Wren found such caress.

"You are just starved, my heart," Thorin jested flirtatiously. "You have not lain with a man in twenty years." Wren giggled again. "And the last time it was with an old man."

Wren swatted his chest.

"Nonsense. You have always been young in spirit, even when a body was growing old." She shifted and straddled him. The large hot palms lay on her waist in a habitual gesture, thumbs tenderly stroking her skin. She looked him over, without hiding the wide grin stretching at her lips.

"Are you enjoying the view, my lady?" he rumbled, and she bit into her bottom lips playfully. She did, of course. The dark locks of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror were scattered on the pillows, with just a few silver strands weaved into the ebony. The corners of his soft lips were curved up in a small smile, the sapphire blue eyes shone.

"Quite so." She clawed at his pectoral muscles, and he made a pleased noise. "And yet, Thorin, should we not talk about?.."

She did not finish her sentence, as he sat up, in a fluid powerful movement, and the index finger of his right hand lay across her lips.

"No, not yet. We are not talking yet. Miraculous returns, possible quests, and Gondorian princesses will have to wait. First, I will celebrate being alive with my wife." His authoritative, low voice made a shiver run Wren's spine, and she submitted.

He pulled her to his lips, into his passion and his fire, and Wren wrapped her arms around his neck, and opened her body and her soul to him.


	3. Two Dreams

_Rohan, the City of Edoras_

* * *

Eomer was finishing his morning meal, when a courtier knocked at the door of his chamber bringing news of the visit of Boromir, son of Denethor. Eomer hastily finished his food and went to the visitor's halls. As usual, his uncle refused to come out of his rooms, with the same old excuse of feeling old and frail and sick. Eomer thought that he could hear the disembodied, nasal voice of Grima from behind the King's doors.

Boromir stood by the window, conversing with Eowyn, and quickly stepped away from her, opening his arms for Eomer. The men embraced. Eomer clapped his hand to Boromir's back forcefully, and felt bandages under the man's tunic on the right shoulder.

"How faring are you, Boromir?" Eomer asked, and the Gondorian smiled.

"Tired and hungry, but happy to see friendly faces."

They sat at the table, while courtiers sent by Eowyn placed wine and food in front of them. Boromir ate, while Eomer sipped wine.

"I am travelling West," the Gondorian spoke, after his hunger was squelched.

"West?" Eomer frowned in confusion.

"Aye, West. To a place called Imladris. It is the dwelling of an Elven Lord." Boromir chuckled, as if not believing his words himself.

"What would you need there? And so far from your lands." Eomer poured more wine into Boromir's goblet. "I have heard of the attack on Osgiliath."

Boromir's face grew dark.

"Aye. It was sudden, like a black swarm fell on the city. No one survived, just my brother, myself, and a few others."

"Were they Orcs?" Eomer asked. "And Haradrim, I reckon? And Easterlings?"

"Aye. But we did not fall from their forces. There was new menace there." Eomer saw with surprise the usually proud and arrogant face of the Gondorian grow pale and almost frightened. "There were the Black Riders there too, Eomer," Boromir lowered his voice, and Eomer winced away from him.

"The Ringwraiths? Are they not just a dark legend?" he asked in a raspy voice, and the Gondorian shook his head mournfully. "Is that why you are seeking counsel of some Elven Lord?"

"No, I had a… dream. My brother did as well. Our father told us of its meaning."

Eomer felt fear clench his heart, as if it were cautioning him from asking, but it was not in his nature to cower from a challenge. "And what is it?"

Boromir emptied his goblet and stretched his hand to the wine jug. Eomer watched the red liquid pour, a few splashes falling on the wood of the table.

"A menace from the East is coming. And the dreams spoke of Morgul, and a blade that lies in Imladris, that will bring us saving. I do not know where that Elven land lies, and who that sword belongs to, but the dream came both to me, and to Faramir, to him even twice, and I took the quest upon myself to travel there."

* * *

After Boromir retired into his chamber, Eomer went outside, gathering lungfuls of warm air, his eyes roaming the hills in front of him aimlessly. He had always been fond of Boromir, they had similar tempers: both were quick in their decisions and harsh in their judgement, both valued courage and honour above any other qualities. Legends of the old, and dreams, and mythical yarn interested them not, while sword and battle were dear to their hearts. Eomer could not believe Boromir would travel to some unknown land, to some Elven lord that could just be a creature of a children's fairy tale.

Eomer shook his head, and exhaled sharply in irritation. In his mind, people were supposed to pay attentions to matters at hand, as opposed to chasing some tripe that apparently came to them in a dream.

Eowyn stepped out of the doors behind him and stood near. He looked and saw the corners of her lips were drooped, and eyes narrowed. Eomer knew his sister well. It was worry and anger mixed that coloured her features presently.

"What is it, sister?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"It is nothing…" Her tone only confirmed his suspicions.

"Eowyn..."

She shook her head again, and then her hand flew up to the other upper arm, as if without her will. She rubbed her skin under the sleeve. Eomer took a quick step to her and covered the hand forcefully.

She winced.

"Eowyn, are you hurt?"

She jerked her head, hiding her proud face from him. The lips were now pressed in a thin line.

"Tell me now, or I will find out myself!" Eomer's temper was rising.

"It's the snake," Eowyn muttered under her breath, and he had to lean closer to even hear her.

"What? What snake?! Who hurt you, Eowyn?!" He had half a mind to shake her. Her obstinance was infuriating!

"Grima!" she hissed, and their eyes locked. Hers were burning with rage and hatred. "He grabbed me! He..." Eomer felt her shudder.

"He will pay for this!" Eomer let her go and rushed back inside.

He heard Eowyn's voice behind him, 'No, Eomer, wait! It will not end well!' but rage had already taken him. He would find the filth and break his spine! How dared the scum even to think of looking at Eomer's sister, the niece of King Theoden?!

* * *

 _Dol Amroth_

Lothiriel woke up with a small scream, and sat up in her bed sharply. Her body ached, after the altercation with the corsairs of two days ago, and she made a small frustrated noise when sliding off her bed. She picked up an outer robe off a chair near her bed, and dressing hastily, she rushed out of her room. Her feet in soft slippers pit patted on the stone floors of a passage.

"Father?" she called softly, knocking at the door of his study. "Father?"

"Come in, Lothiriel," his voice answered from behind the door, and she entered.

He sat at his large, heavy desk, a familiar view for Lothiriel. She had always found the consistency of her Father's habits reassuring. There he was, in his dark grey doublet, ebony and silver strands on his shoulders, steel grey eyes - so similar to hers in colour and shape - lowered to a parchment in front of him.

He blindly pointed at the chair in front of his table, just as always, expecting her to sit mannerly, as she had always done before. But everything shook inside Lothiriel, and she breathed out, 'Father...'

He lifted his face, and his eyes widened from whatever he saw in her face.

Years of strict upbringing were still preventing Lothiriel from losing her composure fully, and she wriggled her hands and bit into her bottom lip.

Imrahil rose from his seat.

"What is it, Lothiriel? You do not seem yourself..."

A sob fell from her lips, and she rushed to him. He embraced her, although in a hesitant and reserved manner, and she hid her face into him.

"I had a dream, Father… A horrible dream..."

"You came to me because of a nightmare?" Disbelief coloured the Prince's voice, and Lothiriel hastily gathered her bearings, knowing that if she did not explain soon, her Father would feel disdain and anger towards what seemed like a childish fear to him.

She stepped away and squared her shoulders.

"It was not a simple dream, Father. It was… of some mythical nature. There was a voice, and I was told of a menace rising at the East. And of a place called Imladris, and of a sword..."

"Lothiriel, what is this nonsense?" the Prince interrupted her in an irritated voice. Lothiriel shrank away from his cold, harsh tone. "This is so not in your character..."

"Father, you have to listen!" Lothiriel raised her voice, fighting her reverence towards her Prince. "I know how it might seem to you, but I am sure of it."

"Lothiriel, you disappoint me. It is clearly some sort of hysteria, after your predicament no doubt, but I expected more from you." He shook his head and sat back behind his desk. "Go to your rooms, and have more rest."

"But, Father..." Lothiriel protested.

"Go!" He pointed at the door. "And perhaps, you should see a healer, ask for some herbs to calm your nerves." The Prince cringed in annoyance and derision. "Just make sure no rumours start. The last thing we need is people starting to drivel that the Princess has grown feeble."

Lothiriel opened her mouth to argue, but then turned around and left. She knew this tone of her father's voice, and knew that any more words were futile.

* * *

Lothiriel returned to her chamber and sat by the large window, looking out at the sea. The night was warm, and the large white stars sparkled in the sky. She sat thusly till the pale yellow dawn started rising over the horizon, and then she called her maid. The girl was young and pretty, and a known gossip. She was friends with many maids around the city, and possessed the ability that Lothiriel needed most at the moment - she could gather clues and words around Dol Amroth.

"My lady," the girl greeted her politely, with a small bow.

"I need your help, Morwen. I need you to find two people, who still might be in the city. Start with the best taverns, those asking for a lot of gold for their rooms and providing most comfort. The people I seek are a Dwarf - not old, his hair still dark, eye blue - and a woman - short, his height, with fiery hair." The maid's eyebrows jumped up in astonishment. "If you find them, give them a message. I wish to speak to them."

The girl gave the Princess a confused look over, but nodded nonetheless.

"And, Morwen?" Lothiriel drew her eyebrows together. "If you speak a word of it to anyone, or are not careful in your inquiries, your transgressions with the cook's son will be known to your betrothed."

The maid's face grew paler, and she as much as ran out of Lothiriel's room after a hasty promise and a bow.

Lothiriel fell back on her bed and pressed her hands over the face. Despite your Father's hurtful words, she knew her dream and her current assurance were no hysteria. She also knew that pursuing the matter was a direct disobedience, which she had never even considered before. And she was also certain that no one in the city would come to her aid, without her Father's order. The two mysterious strangers - who saved her life, spoke of returning from the dead, and seemed to think their destinies were intertwined with hers - could.

* * *

In the evening of the next day, led by a small note written in a neat handwriting and brought to her by Morwen, Lothiriel came to a small but lavish inn in the South of the City. She was met by the innkeeper, bent in a respectful bow. She was expected, despite not being recognised, her face hidden under a low hood of a cloak.

The innkeeper led her to a private room, with a fireplace and a table set for three. The woman and the Dwarf were having dinner, and when Lothiriel stopped before the door she could hear their merry voices and then a low, deep guffaw of the Dwarf.

The innkeeper knocked, and Lothiriel was invited in. The Dwarf rose when she stepped in, and the door softly closed behind her.

"Good evening, fair maiden." Mischief danced in his bright blue eyes. "What can we do for you?"

The red haired woman looked at Lothiriel from behind the Dwarf's wide frame and gave her a wide smile.

"Evening," Lothiriel answered, feeling rather out of sorts. Up until this moment, she felt almost confident in her actions, but now her intention to share her dream and her fears with two people she had only seen once in her life and knew nothing about seemed like madness.

"You look well." The red haired woman looked Lothiriel over, warmth splashing in her strange, slanted eyes. "Hopefully, you have fully recovered from your misadventure. Does she not look well, my lord?"

"I would not know. All women of Men look the same to me," he answered to her, with a lopsided grin, and she giggled. Lothiriel somehow had managed to forget their odd manner of conversation, and she once again felt flustered.

"Stop frustrating our guest," the woman laughed, and pointed at the third chair. "Please, sit, my lady. No conversation is easy when your weight is on your feet."

Lothiriel sat, gathering her thoughts.

The Dwarf sat as well, and Lothiriel watched him pour ale in his mug. The woman was drinking tea, and Lothiriel looked the table between them with curiosity. It was quite an obvious set of two kinds of dishes: meat and ale and cheeses for the Dwarf, and tea and cakes for the woman. Lothiriel was offered all of the above, and watched the Dwarf pour wine into a goblet for her.

"I came to ask for your… conjectures, my lady and kind sir." Lothiriel squirmed in her chair in discomfort. She was taught to never guess and never doubt. Her present behaviour would seem nothing but palaver and madness to her Father, and the elders of her people. And yet, she had made her decision, and felt it was too late to renegade from it now. "But first I would ask for some knowledge of who you are. I know I have no right to request it, but I think just like me, you know there is some strange connection between your… appearance in Dol Amroth and my destiny."

The Dwarf took a sip silently, and threw a look at the redhead. She was pensively chewing a morsel of a seedcake she put in her mouth, her eyes on Lothiriel's quickly flaming up face. Interestingly enough, the Dwarf who previously had been obviously the one to make decisions and give orders, just as Lothiriel would expect from a man, was now delegating to guide the conversation to the woman.

"Why not tell us what happened to you, Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil? Clearly, something has transpired that made you come to us. Fear not, we will accept your words, and will aid as much as we can."

Lothiriel had always been cautioned against trusting strangers, especially foreigners, but the woman had the air of strange warmth and serenity around her.

Lothiriel drew a sharp breath and told them of her dream. Both listened without speaking. After her short report was done, Lothiriel hastily grasped a goblet, and in a few large gulps she drank the wine the Dwarf had courteously poured for her.

"Well, at least there are dreams…" the Dwarf drew out, and threw the woman a meaningful look. "I was starting to worry this time everything would be simple and straightforward..." His sardonic tone seemed to leave the redhead unaffected. She was twirling her cup in her hands.

"Imladris… It is the Sindarin name of Rivendell," she spoke quietly, and the Dwarf made a scoff like sound.

"Excellent. Elves again." He shook his head. "And what else did that voice in your head say: 'counsels to be taken' and 'a token with Doom at hand?' Which means there will be days and days of talking again, and nothing will be done, and then some heirloom once again is to be destroyed or acquired."

"Well, if the dream spoke of a token of Doom, then probably destroyed," the woman answered, and the Dwarf gave her an impish glance from the corner of his eye.

"Well, if memory serves me right, the token you destroyed, my heart, had no Doom chained to it, and yet you threw the Jewel of my people into a fiery pit." He cocked an eyebrow at the woman, and her turn-up nose twitched. Lothiriel watched with widened eyes this strange banter of theirs. There was no malice in their tones. It seemed like a long time game, perhaps just helping them to think.

"I find it curious that you are still complaining about it, my lord," the woman grumbles. "You found plenty of other jewels in the mountain that was returned to you."

"Indeed." He chuckled. "And what else was there in that prophecy of yours, fair maiden?" he once again addressed Lothiriel. "A Halfling? It is never without a Halfling."

The red haired woman giggled again.

"I doubt it is the same Halfling, my lord. It has been decades."

"Master Burglar seemed quite lively and sprightly last time we saw him."

"It was forty years ago," the woman reminded him. "But none of this answers any of the questions that worry me presently. Such as, why are we alive? And why are we here? In Dol Amroth? Is there a connection between us and the maiden's dream of Rivendell?"

"And what am I to do with this knowledge?" Lothiriel added. "None would listen to me. My Father brushed my dream aside, no matter how certain I was in its significance."

"Men rarely care about such affairs," the woman noted. Lothiriel could not hold back her next question.

"Are you not of Men, my lady?" The woman's looks, though hardly of Gondor or Rohan, were nonetheless clearly pointing at the same race as Lothiriel's.

"Oh, I meant men as opposed to women. They habitually lack sensitivity and sense to look further than the sheer facts of life." The woman smiled, and the Dwarf, to Lothiriel's shock, saluted with his mug. "I do not wish to tell you what you are to do with this knowledge, Lady Lothiriel. And believe me when I say it, I speak with utmost confidence. I believe one has to make their own decision when it comes to making a choice between following the guidance of a dream, and returning to one's usual life as if nothing happened. The dream was given to you, and you are to choose your path."

Lothiriel sat in silence, her unseeing eyes fixed on the wood of the table. The Dwarf and the woman spoke nothing either, both almost immobile, except woman's long delicate fingers drumming on the side of her cup.

"Should we tell her of our travelling plans, my heart?" The Dwarf seemed to have lost his patience first. Lothiriel lifted her eyes at them, only to see the most astonishing picture: the red haired woman rolled her eyes and then made a 'shoosh' noise.

"Leave the child be," she scalded him. "I, as no one else, understand how hard it is for her right now..."

"Are you travelling the same way?" Lothiriel asked, suddenly arriving at a decision. "If I to travel to that place, Imladris, will you accompany me?" The Dwarf straightened up in his chair, as if preparing to answer, but the woman sighed deeply, and he remained silent.

"Are you certain, my lady?" the redhead asked softly. "Just as you said, by following the dream, you will go against your Father's will, and the land you speak of is on the other end of the world. The journey will be long and perilous."

"But will you travel with me?" Lothiriel insisted, and the woman nodded.

"We believe that is our purpose here. To accompany you. At least, we could not have come up with anything else in our endless discussions."

"Well, we did not spend that much time talking," the Dwarf remarked, ununderstandably to Lothiriel, but she ignored his words, much more preoccupied with the matter at hand.

She watched the two people in front of her, and saw them exchange long pointed looks, as if they led a silent conversation between them with just their eyes. The corner of the Dwarf's lips twitched, curling up, and the woman sighed again.

"If you travel to Rivendell, Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil, you have our full support. We will travel with you," the Dwarf affirmed, and smiled to Lothiriel. Unexpectedly to herself, she blushed under his gaze.

"And I think it is time for formal introductions," the woman spoke, and shook her head. "Although, I doubt it will bring you any relief or add to your confidence."

With a low chuckle, the Dwarf rose on his feet and bestowed Lothiriel with a low bow. One of his thick black eyebrows was cocked under a whimsical angle.

"Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, at your service," he announced. "And this is my wife, Lady Wren of Erebor."

"And do not forget to mention the most important part," the woman added in an exasperated tone. "We are the late royal couple of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, deceased more than a dozen years ago, and recently awoken on the sand of Dol Amroth shores - just a few minutes before you appeared in that rocky crevice - in our bodies of seventy years prior and in the clothes we were probably buried in."

"You were right," Lothiriel answered. "That did not bring me any relief."

* * *

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	4. The Beginning of a Journey

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* * *

Three days later, in the hours just before dawn Lothiriel led her horse Minuial through a side gate of the fortress. The saddlebags were heavy with provisions and supplies; and Lothiriel's heart beat frantically in her heart. It was not the long journey, unmatched by any she had taken in her life before, nor the mysterious dream beyond her understanding and setting her on this travel, that made her bite her lips, and lose her usual composure, bred into her manners with the salty air and the cold water of Dol Amroth. It was the thought of disobeying her Father that made her hands tremble. She had always striven to be the daughter she thought he deserved. She admired the Prince immensely, and always saw the way she was brought up as the most just and fair. She knew that diplomacy was the vocation of women, to travel, and to pass on what men had decided, and eventually she would fulfill her ultimate diplomatic mission and ensure an alliance with another house through marriage.

The Dwarf and the woman were waiting for her in a small grove, outside the city. A pair of well-fed, well-groomed ponies were sleepily grazing nearby, plucking the scarce green leaves between the rocks. Lothiriel still could not quite accept the titles that the couple claimed to possess. Not only was she brought up skeptical towards such spiritual mysteries that in most cases were expected to have some dull, mundane explanation, but also Lothiriel did not feel that the Dwarf and woman's behaviour was in any way fitting to a royal couple. In the hours that Lothiriel had spent with them, discussing and planning their journey, the two of them laughed a lot, joked a lot, and were flirtatious and frolicsome towards each other, and at the same simple and cordial in their treatment of Lothiriel. Neither seemed such behaviour typical for Dwarves, in Lothiriel's mind.

Lothiriel looked at them and once again saw them participate in some silly game. The Dwarf stood leaning at a pine, his left hand was held before him, gloved and opened, and the woman would put the index finger of her right one on the heart of his palm. He would quickly snap his hand, closing it, and the woman would jerk her hand back just an instant before he could catch it. He chuckled, she snorted, and the game would repeat itself. At some point the woman was not fast enough - or, as Lothiriel suspected, based on her previous observations of the couple, perhaps the woman was not trying hard enough. The fingers of the wide hand grasped hers, and she made a squeaky noise. Lothiriel had already reached them by then, and she saw the Dwarf to pull at the woman hand. If she indeed showed any resistance, it was of false nature, since after his second arm went around her, she wrapped her arms around his neck, eagerly pressing her lips to his. Lothiriel was unaccustomed to such open display of amorous relationships, and quickly looked under her feet.

"Let me go, my heart," the woman murmured with a soft laughter. "Our companion is here."

"I am not the one holding on to another like a bellyband on a pony," he answered in a low velvet voice, and the woman laughed some more and stepped away from him. Lothiriel had to admit that his jest was only partially true. It took the redhead a visible effort to wrestle out of his firm embrace.

They both mounted their ponies, and Lothiriel climbed into the saddle as well.

"Are you ready, my lady?" the Dwarf asked; and after throwing the last look at the dark form of her home city, with the familiar silhouette of wall battlements and towers, Lothiriel nodded, and their journey began.

* * *

They rode in silence for a while. Both her companions seemed in high spirits, occasionally exchanging couple words in Common Speech, mostly concerning their surroundings. It had been decided between the three of them that they would first travel to Pinnath Gelin, the fief of Men, under the rule of Hirluin the Fair. As Lothiriel was personally familiar with the Lord, they decided to stay away from crowded places, to hide her identity. They would replenish their supplies, and decide on their further direction. Something told Lothiriel that her companions had already had a certain path in mind and just did not share it with her. She wondered what the reason for it could be.

In the evening they set camp, and the redhaired woman deftly started fire and dinner. The Dwarf had brought wood, and was tending to their horses. They had not asked for Lothiriel's help, though she would proudly confirm that she was a traveller experienced enough to be useful. She had visited Pinnath Gelin numerous times, and was no novice when it came to camping under open skies.

After finishing her bowl of aromatic stew, she jumped on her feet before the woman could, and offered to go to collect water and wash dishes. The couple exchanged looks, in their habitual manner, as if discussing something silently, and the Dwarf stood up and waved his hand in a wide inviting gesture.

"Lead the way, my lady!"

"I can go alone, kind sir," Lothiriel said stubbornly. She did not enjoy being treated like a child. "There are hardly any dangers here."

"Do I need to remind you the circumstances of our meeting, Lady Lothiriel?" the Dwarf asked cheekily, and Lothiriel cringed but conceded.

The picked up the waterskins and the dishes and started walking towards a stream running between pines.

* * *

"Will Lady Wren be alright left alone?" Lothiriel asked, her tone meaningful. The woman was small, the size of a twelve years old girl in Dol Amroth, and Lothiriel doubted the redhead was a mighty fighter in disguise. The sword on the woman's side was short and wide, probably of Dwarven craft, and seemed to Lothiriel more of a toy.

"Lady Wren is known to devastate an Orc army, beheading couple of their berserkers, and then asking, 'What exactly happened?' in her customary mannered tone," the Dwarf answered, clearly pleased and proud to pronounce these words. "I would be more concerned for us, if she catches a cold and take to sneezing, because then she might singe our hair." Lothiriel stared at him in bewilderment.

"Is it Elven magic? I have heard of it, but thought it a fairy tale."

"It is not Elven." There was immediate disdain in the Dwarf's tone. Lothiriel remembered of the animosity between the two races. "It is of Men, just not all Men. In actuality, it originated somewhere on these shores. Lady Wren was born in Enedwaith."

"Enedwaith? But there are no noble houses in Enedwaith. The lands are deserted after the Great Flood. There are just small villages, they say."

"Lady Wren is not of noble descent. At least, not as Men's view on it goes."

Lothiriel frowned and silently watched the Dwarf fill the waterskins. She had always accepted the order of things - the noble marriages, and the alliances made through them. She could clearly see that there were quite different reasons for the Dwarf, who claimed to be a former leader of one their Kingdoms, and indeed bore himself with regal dignity, to marry Lady Wren, the reasons that perhaps had something to do with the whispers and looks they exchange, which Lothiriel could only guess the meaning of, but felt unsettled by.

* * *

The next morning they continued their travel. The Dwarf and the woman rode in front, quietly talking in some throaty language that Lothiriel did not know. To her ear, used to Gondor Sindarin, it sounded harsh and unpleasant, even softened by Lady Wren's lilting voice. And yet, Lothiriel managed to catch a few names that she recognised.

"Druwaith Iaur?" she asked raising her voice. "You wish to travel through the Dark Forest of Druwaith Iaur?! It is beyond dangerous! There are Woses there, the monstrous wild people!"

Lady Wren turned in her saddle and gave Lothiriel a kind smile.

"The Druedain - which is the rightful name of those living in those lands - are no wilder that you and I, Lady Lothiriel. I know of the scary stories the Rohirrim tell about them, calling them Woses, and accusing them of horrid atrocities and villainies, going as far as saying they were cannibals..."

"Are they not?!" Lothiriel interrupted. "They are no Men! They possess magic that is dark and vile, and their weapons bear poison as they know no honour at combat!" Lothiriel now understood why her companions felt unwilling to enlighten her of their future plans. She would never agree on taking that path!

"You judge what you do not know, Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil." The Dwarf's voice was rising, losing its warmth and softness; but when she spoke, the redhaired woman still sounded patient and kind.

"People tend to believe the worst about those living near but of whom little is known. Somehow, it is so easy to see the worst in our neighbours." She gave Lothiriel a small smile. "I cannot say I have met any of the Druedain myself, so you will just have to trust the knowledge that I am passing along from my grandmother, but she had dealings with them, and even knew their leader - Ghan."

"And what are they like then?" Lothiriel asked, still holding on to her suspicions, just as she had been brought up to.

"I would not be able to tell you what they look like, my lady." A small chuckle fell of Lady Wren's lips. "My grandmother was blind. But they did not eat her, that I can tell you with all assurance."

Lothiriel looked the woman over in disbelief, trying to understand whether the latter was joking. The slanted eyes of the redhead were twinkling with mirth, and the wide red mouth was stretched in a grin.

"That is no reassurance enough, Lady Wren," Lothiriel spoke in a low voice. "We need to find another way."

"Other ways are more dangerous, my lady. We cannot cross the White mountains; we can not travel by sea or travel along the shore. And if Lady Wren claims we can cross the Lands of the Wild Men of the Woods, then such is our path," the Dwarf said, in a tone that, as he probably thought, left no room for argument. He clearly knew not the stubbornness of the Men of Dol Amroth.

"Then I will have to travel on my own." Lothiriel drew her brows together. Her eyes locked with suddenly glacial cold eyes of the Dwarf.

"Excellent," he sneered sarcastically. "You should start presently. Do you intend to fly over the mountains on an eagle, or travel the river in a barrel? I assure you I have tried both. Neither left me willing to try again."

" _Talummâ, malansûn_ ," Lady Wren addressed her husband in the Dwarven language again, and he exhaled sharply and loudly, like a stroppy horse, but his face grew calmer. Gone were the narrowed eyes and the muscle knots on his jaw. Lady Wren then turned to Lothiriel. "The lands of Druwaith Iaur are the shortest and the safest path to Rivendell, Lothiriel. After we cross Rivers Adorn and Isen, we will follow the ruins of the North-South Road, and after that, along River Gwathlo, we will soon arrive to the House of Lord Elrond. I grew up near River Isen. My mother was a fur merchant, they took their boats along it. I know those lands."

"May I remind you it had been long since you travelled those lands," Lothiriel grumbled. She omitted the title, since the redhead was now using Lothiriel's name. To think of it, no one except Lothiriel's Father and Brothers ever had.

"Indeed. But I doubt rivers reversed their direction and mountains moved since then," the woman answered lightly. "As for enemies we might encounter, we have your bow; the best swordsman in Seven Dwarven Kingdoms; and a tinsy bit of magic on our side. I am feeling our prospects are rather bright."

Lothiriel did not answer, pondering her current circumstances, and then after about half an hour of brooding she could not hold back her question anymore.

"My lord, did you really fly on a eagle and rode a barrel?"

The Dwarf guffawed.

"Aye, I have." His bright blue eyes clouded with memories.

"You should tell her, my heart," Lady Wren encouraged him. "The time will pass faster with a fascinating story."

He chuckled again, a warm rumble rolled in his chest, and he threw his wife a side glance. She lifted one eyebrow, showing she was waiting, and he smiled lopsidedly and spoke.

"It started with a Hobbit and a Wizard..."

* * *

 _Talummâ, malansûn = (Khuzdul)_ Let us be patient, beloved.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **1\. Facebook Writer's Page: katyakolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **2.** **Rodhina World:**

 **rodhina dot kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **3\. My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **4\. JukePop:** **Katya Kolmakov**

 ** _Blind Carnival_**

a parody on romance/erotic novels {COMPLETE}

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _also_

 ** _Better Than One_**

a parody on romance/erotic and mystery/adventure/supernatural novels {UPDATED EVERY THURSDAY}

 _Summary:_ A spinster librarian, the ghost of a 1900s British naval officer, and a Canadian dreamboat come together in a story that will make a harlequin novel pale in comparison when it comes to cliches, hackneyed turns of speech, and predictable plot twists.

Etta Ryan, a prude and a bluestocking, led on a journey to a mysterious place called Winnipeg, Manitoba, will encounter on her path an unnaturally attractive Canadian farmer, mysterious numbers disclosed to a long dead British officer at a medium seance, a treasure map, a secret cave, and much more. Welcome to the story where plot will make some sense, and erotica is abundant and gratuitous!

 **5. Other media:**

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	5. Aglahad

**Thank you, A, Suzie Qness (is it a nod to Suzy Quatro in your nick? :D I love her!), and anonymous guests readers who left a review, and whom I sadly can't thank in a PM! Everyone's support is greatly appreciated! I hope you continue enjoying the story!**

 **With heartfelt gratitude for support,**

 **Yours,**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

Their journey went just as they had intended, through the plains North of Dol Amroth. They were approaching the ford across the place where Rivers Morthond and Ciril met. It was well-known to Lothiriel, who had previously travelled to Pinnath Gelin on diplomatic missions for her Father.

One night, they were having their dinner near the fire, and the Dwarven King was continuing his usual recollecting of the Quest for Erebor, by now approaching the point in the story where the Dwarves had been stuffed into barrels like apples. Lothiriel had by then stopped trying to hide her disbelief and her occasional smiles. She still could not decide where to allow the merriment to burst out of her, especially when the Dwarven King would retell some especially amusing anecdote with the most serious face, while his wife would nod, her eyes shining. Lady Wren would sometimes give the best supporting lines, as if they were performing a play that they had rehearsed many times like those wandering jesters, but also one could see the sincere admiration and interest splash in the woman's eyes.

"And then my sister-son Fili fell out of the barrel, coughing and complaining, that never in his life he would ever enjoy an apple, and one of the company..." the Dwarf suddenly stopped, and then pressed his index finger across his lips. The women look at him, and Lothiriel saw Lady Wren gesture a sequence of rapid movements of her fingers. It seemed to be some sort of a secret language, and he answered her with a few movements of his hand.

The Dwarf rose completely soundlessly, and Lady Wren followed him, opening her palm. Lothiriel saw a small ball of the mysterious glow that she had seen the day they met emerge on the heart of the redhead's hand. The couple exchanged another look, and the Dwarven sword slid out of the scabbard.

Lady Wren's hands flew up, the magic blooming around them like the sea flowers that grew on rocks near Dol Amroth's docks.

And then with an astonishing for his height and width grace and reach, the Dwarven King leaped into the darkness between the closest trees. There was a noise of a blow, a pained yelp, and a sound of a body or two falling on the ground.

"Please, stop!" a young male voice cried, and Thorin, son of Thrain appeared from the shrubs.

He was dragging out a Man, splayed on the ground, his legs thrashing weakly. The Dwarf's left hand was firmly clasped around the Man's collar, and he was pushing his sword into the scabbard.

"I noticed him two days ago," Lady Wren said calmly, the magic dissipating around her palms. Lothiriel's head whipped, and she gawked at the woman.

"Aye, he was rather loud that night," the Dwarf chuckled, and as much as threw the man ahead, under the women's feet.

"What made you leap at the poor boy now?" the redhead asked, with a small laugh, her eyes studying the prostrated man.

"I was getting irritated by his cockiness. He was sitting closer to the fire with each night." The Dwarf gave the man a small, painless kick under the ribs. "Aye, laddie?"

The man finally lifted his face, dirt and blood smeared on it. And that was when Lothiriel recognised him.

"Aglahad?!"

"Do you know him?" Lady Wren asked.

"He is one of the squires in Dol Amroth!" Lothiriel could not believe her eyes. "What are you doing spying on us?"

Aglahad sat up, looking uneasy. His eyes darted to his right, at the Dwarf who stood, smirking, his arms crossed on his chest.

"Speak, laddie, do not make me… encourage you again." There was no malice in the Dwarf's voice.

"Do not frighten the boy, my heart." Lady Wren shook a finger at her husband. "He is clearly a friend of Lady Lothiriel's."

"We are. We grew up together," Lothiriel hastily affirmed. "But what are you doing here?" she once again addressed Aglahad.

A grimace of embarrassment distorted his features.

"I saw you go to town to meet… them." He pointed at the woman and the Dwarf with his eyes. "And I knew something was wrong. And when you left town with them, I..."

"You followed me?!" Lothiriel exclaimed, and at the background Lady Wren made a small happy noise.

"Oh that is so lovely! Young love!" The redhead clapped her hands.

"No!" both Lothiriel and Aglahad as much as yelled, and the Dwarf emitted a low groan.

"Mahal help me, that is what we get for meddling into the matters of Men. Mawkishness and enamoured children."

"We are not children!" Lothiriel was losing patience with the conceited Dwarf! "We have seen eighteen Springs! And we are not enamoured! Aglahad is my friend and my subject. He is a squire of a Swan Knight in my Father's court."

"He could be your Father himself, he still has no business lurking around," the Dwarf grumbled and walked back to the fire, making a spectacle of settling down on the fallen tree he had been sitting on. He groaned again, as if from physical strain, though by now Lothiriel knew he had no trouble moving with agility. The Dwarf picked up his bowl again. "The boy must go."

"I am staying!" Aglahad exclaimed, and Lothiriel ignored him. She had more pressing matters to attend.

"You do not get to decide whether he stays or goes. He is my subject, and it is my quest!" she raised her voice at the Dwarf.

"He is loud, clumsy, and followed you because of your beautiful… eyes," the Dwarf pointed at her with his spoon. "Or something rather. I could not tell. Do you wish to keep him around to listen to his maudlin sighs?"

"I do not sigh!" Aglahad cried out, but the rest of the company did not answer him. Lothiriel was glaring at the smug Dwarf, Lady Wren was studying the squire, with some soft expression on her face.

"I do not wish to keep him! But it will be I who decides what is to be done with him!"

"So, you agree with me then?" The impossible Dwarf put a spoonful of stew in his mouth and chewed blissfully.

"Yes! No!" Lothiriel growled and would have stomped her foot, if she had not been brought up to keep her composure. She grew ashamed of her behaviour right away, and exhaled sharply to calm herself.

"We cannot punish the boy for being in love," Lady Wren drew out.

"I am not in love!" Aglahad once again raised his voice, while Lothiriel was still giving dagger like looks at the Dwarf.

"Aglahad, go home," Lothiriel threw to the squire, without sparing him a glance. "I know what I am doing!"

"Who are these people, Lothiriel?" Aglahad asked in a tense voice, and Lothiriel almost hissed at him. He would so often forget she was his Princess! And just because they had been playing together as children!

"Go home, Aglahad," she repeated.

"I do not think he will listen," Lady Wren commented at the background.

"Excellent. And now we will have a children's squabble," the Dwarf dramatically rolled his eyes. "The next thing they will start throwing sand into each other's hair."

"Remember, Unna used to do it with Bofur's son?" Lady Wren laughed and sat down near her husband. He laughed, surprisingly softly, and nodded.

Lothiriel turned to Aglahad. He had gotten up and stood in all his impressive, but lanky height. He would soon grow wider and more muscular just like his older brothers, but at the moment his wide shoulders were in stark contrast with the narrow middle.

"Aglahad, I cannot explain anything to you, but you had no right to go behind my back this way. I have a quest, and these people are helping me. Swear of secrecy to me, and go home." Lothiriel hoped her voice was firm.

"Oh, so your Father does not know?" Aglahad drew out, and his eyes narrowed. Lothiriel realised she had just given out an advantage in this fight!

"Here we go," the Dwarf boomed, and his wife shooshed him. Lothiriel clenched her fists, trying to ignore them.

"Aglahad..."

"If you send me back, I will tell him where you went, with whom, and where you are heading. I have overheard quite a lot in the last few days." Aglahad squared his shoulders and looked at her down his long crooked nose. A smug grin played on his bow like curved lips.

"I think the lover boy is winning," the Dwarf once again decided to remind the world of his presence. Lady Wren unsuccessfully hid a giggle under a small cough. Lothiriel was starting to panic.

"Aglahad, you do not understand..."

"I will be of help, Lothiriel! I can fight, and I am a fast rider."

Lothiriel knew as much. Aglahad was the best among the squires, and there were talks of making him a Swan Knight before the usual term, because of his exceptional skills. And having someone familiar on this frightening and confusing journey was so tempting! Lothiriel shook her head, chasing the thoughts away.

"I do not need you here..."

"I am staying. Or I will tell your Father!"

"Well, I think that is about it," the Dwarf announced, and rose on his feet.

The top of his head only reached Aglahad's sternum, but still the squire took a small step back. Lothiriel quickly looked the young man over. She was not sure what had happened in the woods, but he did not seem wounded. There was a small scratch on his face, but it was probably from his own clumsiness, or from being dragged on the ground covered in pine needles.

"I see three ways here." The Dwarf bent three fingers of his gloved hand. "The boy goes home, but then he blathers to the Prince. Do we want it?" For no conceivable reason, he looked back at his wife. She shook her head, feigning a pensive frown, while her lips were twitching in a suppressed smile, and he hummed. "Alright, not good then. He goes with us, but then we have to withstand his moaning and sighing..."

"I do not sigh!" Aglahad had been keeping quiet until now, clearly apprehensive towards the Dwarven warrior, but here his composure crumbled.

"I am sorry to upset you, but you very much do, my dear," Lady Wren said in a soft consoling tone. "Sadly, my husband and I have very sharp hearing. But do let Lord Thorin finish, please. It is very entertaining." Aglahad closed his mouth - he had been intending to argue - with an audible clank of teeth.

"So he can come with us," the Dwarf went back to his summary. "I do not fancy this option one bit, so I say we choose path three, and tie him to a tree and leave him here."

"What?!" Aglahad winced away, as if the Dwarf was going to jump at him with a rope right away.

"He is jesting, my dear." Lady Wren made a light dismissive wave of her delicate hand.

"I am not," the Dwarf said. "We tie him down and leave him, and all our grievances are solved."

"You are not leaving my friend to die!" Lothiriel just could not understand whether the Dwarf was joking or being serious, but either was infuriating! He was treating her as a petulant child!

"You cannot make him keep you secret," the Dwarf reminded her. "You clearly have no power over him, as much as you claim him to be your subject. That is not what a leader is like. Your people and your warriors need to follow your every order, even if they disagree with it."

Lothiriel's chest heaved, and to her utter embarrassment she felt tears rolling over her eyes. The Dwarf was right. What sort of a Princess was she?

Silence hung above the camp.

Lothiriel just could not win in this situation. If she sent Aglahad away, he would betray her secret, and then her Father most likely would make her return. If she allowed him to stay, she would let him defeat her. And to think of it, there was no question of 'allowing' anything here. She was nothing but a girl whom everyone pushed around.

She took a few shuddered breaths in, fighting her tears.

"If you want me to go, I will," Aglahad suddenly spoke, and she looked at him. His face was dark, and he was looking under his feet. "I apologise for putting you in this situation… I will not tell your Father anything."

Aglahad's handsome face was earnest and grim, and Lothiriel believed him. It brought no relief. It was someone else making decisions for her again.

Surprisingly, no remark follows from the fire.

Lothiriel's mind raced, in futile attempts to find some guidance in her previous experience and her upbringing, but nothing helped. She took a long breath in, gaining some time, and lifted her eyes. The Dwarf was now stuffing his pipe nonchalantly, Aglahad stood, his shoulders raised in a tense uncomfortable pose, and then Lothiriel met the slanted eyes of the Dwarven Queen. They shone with sympathetic, profoundly sad light. Perhaps, Lothiriel had hoped to find a hint to the right answer in them, but what she saw was a melancholy telling her that sometimes there was none.

"You can stay, Aglahad," Lothiriel spoke quietly. "If my… companions agree on it."

Aglahad looked at her in disbelief.

"The lad can stay. As long as he learns to stomp less," the Dwarf remarks lightly, as if he had not been arguing the opposite the whole time. Lothiriel gave him a studying look. She was not sure what had just transpired.

"Oh lovely! The more, the merrier!" Lady Wren patted the log near her, on the other side from where her husband was sitting. "Sit down, Aglahad, tell me your story."

Lothiriel expected the young man to bristle and keep to himself to mark his independence, but instead he trotted to the small woman like a happy pup in anticipation of an ear scratching and sat near her.

"Thank you, my lady," he said in earnest, and she passed him a bowl of the mushroom stew they were eating.

"My name is Lady Wren, and this is my husband, Lord Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror."

The woman was conversing as if the aforementioned Lord Thorin had not just dragged Aglahad out of the woods like a catfish from a river, and Lothiriel suddenly realised she was the only one frozen in an awkward standing position. The three people by the fire were having dinner as if their companionship had been intended from the start.

Lothiriel heavily sat down on another pine trunk on the ground.

After a long exchange of pleasantries, Lady Wren started asking Aglahad about his service, and he was answering freely and readily, between spoonfuls of stew and sips from his own waterskin, throwing respectful but not hostile looks at the Dwarf. The Dwarf was smoking quietly, squinting his eyes, and from time to time sending an amused glance to his wife from the corner of his eye. And suddenly Lothiriel felt completely and desperately alone.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 **Rodhina World:**

 **rodhina dot kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

Also available on the blog:

 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 ** _Blind Carnival_** , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	6. Mud Sticks

_Edoras, Rohan_

Eomer awoke in his bed, his head splitting from excruciating pain. He struggled to remember what had happened the night before. And then the memories rushed back. He had gone to his Uncle, to speak to him about Grima, and the repulsive lustful looks the worm had been throwing at Eomer's sister. And the purple bruises on her upper arm left by the snake's treacherous hand.

Eomer groaned and sat up. Everything from the evening before was as if clouded in some nauseating fog. And then a quiet knock came to his door, and without waiting for his answer, the visitor opened the door a crack, and slid in.

"Dernwyn, what are you doing here?" Eomer hisses, and immediately bitter spit filled his mouth. Eowyn's handmaiden laughed softly and came up to his bed.

"This is not how you greeted me last night, my lord," she sing-songed, and sat on the bed near him. Eomer quickly gave it a thought, and realised he was bare under the covers.

"We had spoken of it, Dernwyn. It can never happen again. Do not come to me anymore!"

She poured water in a clay mug and handed it to him, her face blissfully calm, as if she had not heard his words.

"You are pale, my lord. And your hair is tangled." She took a comb out of a pocket of her apron. "Allow me..."

Eomer caught her wrist in his left hand, and gritted through teeth, "Dernwyn, stop! I had told you before, we are no lovers anymore."

"We were last night," she said, and smiled to him. "You were drinking with your eored, and I came to bring you more wine, and you did not allow any other man to even look at me..."

"You had no business coming there! Since when do you bring wine to our revels?" He threw her hand away from him, but she licked her full bright lips and moved closer to him on the bed.

"You said I was as beautiful as the moon last night," she murmured in a low voice, her long fingered graceful hand sliding under the covers. Eomer saw her golden waves fall from around her shoulder, and he felt their silk on the skin of his bare chest. "You said I am as pale and just as out of your reach..."

Eomer felt her hand slide onto his thigh, and she leaned in, to his lips, and he did not fight anymore.

* * *

When Dernwyn left, he rose and went to the basin to wash off. His body ached, and a dull headache tormented his mind, even after the vigorous efforts of the last two hours. He splashed cold water on his face. The night before his Uncle had sent him away, with harsh words, nonsensical and cruel. Eomer walked to the table, still unstable on his feet, and greedily drank some water, the King's accusations from last night ringing in his ears - of him envying his Uncle's trust in Grima, in his 'wise words' and 'sound advice.' Eomer cringed and spat out.

It would have been easier to just feel rage and pain towards his Uncle, but Eomer also worried, and that was a strange feeling for him. Something dark and terrifying seemed to lurk in the King's eyes. He seemed unattentive, as if distracted, but suspicious and agitated at times. Eomer thought he saw the King's hands shake.

Eomer knew only one way to rid himself of these thoughts and vague worries. He threw a tunic and trousers on and walked to the court yard to train.

* * *

At the end of the day, after a meal with his warriors, he went to the stables to see how Firefoot was faring.

Dernwyn stood near the horse that was nuzzling her middle.

"No more treats for you, insatiable!" Dernwyn laughed. "Just like your master..." She stroked the horse's cheek.

"What are you doing here, Dernwyn?" Eomer grumbled, and she threw him a coy look from under her lashes.

"You have asked me this question this morning already, my lord. Would you like the same answer?" Her voice was melodic and confident, and Eomer looked her over.

She was the most beautiful woman in the House, perhaps only outshone by his sister. She was tall, her hair was of the brightest gold, and though not of noble blood she carried herself with pride. Every man desired her. She was known to never allow any frivolties, though; and no one dared. Especially after she started visiting his bed chambers almost every night.

Eomer still remembered the first night she came. There was a simple dress on her, and she slid under his covers without a word. His body started to burn right away, and his hands slid on her smooth skin. A thought, surprising even for him himself, rushed through his mind - that the callouses on his palms probably felt rough on her skin, and that he could hurt her, but she seemed to burn with the same passion as him, and did not seem to notice.

He did not know why he felt shame in the morning. He had not forced her, and she explained to him that she felt she could give herself to anyone she wanted, and that she chose him. It should have pacified him, but somehow he still felt it was wrong. He told her that, and demanded her to forget that night.

She came the night after, and he could not fight the call of her flesh. In the morning he tried to speak again, and this time she laughed. And then she laughed every other morning. And then she stopped coming, and he fought with himself for five nights. He had never felt as much shame as when he broke down and came to her. She took pity and did not make him beg.

Once a moon Eomer would decide it was to end, that he needed to break free. And then he would ask himself why he even wanted to rid himself of these nights, if every man in his place would only be happy. And Eomer did not know the name for that void that he felt inside. He would be tired and sated in the morning, but the void seemed to only grow bigger. Was it because he would sometimes look at the woman in his arms and see that her thoughts were not in the room? She came to him herself, again and again, she flirted and played with him. She sang songs at the revels, and they were full of passion, and she would look only at him, and he knew others envied him. He did not know what was lacking, but he felt that something did.

"You should leave, Dernwyn. The horse needs rest, just like his Master," he grumbled, and turned away to leave.

"I will come soon," she promised, her voice seductive and teasing. "I want wine tonight again. So, do not forget to have some in your chamber, my lord."

"I do not wish you to come," he threw to her over her shoulder.

"We both know it is a lie, my lord," she laughed a silvery laugh, and momentarily it seemed to Eomer that there was a note of derision in her voice. But then her feet rustled on the sand behind him, and her beautiful arms wrapped around his middle. He felt her cheek press to his back. "Let us not argue. I will stay away if you are tired… especially after the morning's deeds." Her tone was soft and mollifying, and Eomer immediately felt offended.

"I am not!"

"Well then, I will see you soon." Her hand splayed on his stomach, and he felt her press harder into his body.

And then with a low chuckle she was gone. He twirled on his heels only to see her skirt disappearing around the corner. Eomer swore under his breath and walked back to the House.

* * *

 _Lands North of Dol Amroth_

Their company had crossed Pinnath Gelin without any misadventures. They had avoided the most populated areas, having sent Aglahad to buy supplies that they required. With the gold from the Dwarven King's pocket and a cloak pulled low on his face, he had no trouble replenishing their provisions discreetly.

He rejoined them outside a large village, and they continued their travels, heading towards River Lefnui. Aglahad had also acquired a map from a merchant in the village, with the instructions on where to find the most favourable fort.

The weather was warm, and the journey was promising to be untroublesome, at least till they reached the mysterious forests of Drumaith Iaur.

* * *

The sun was almost hiding behind the tall trees of the surrounding woods, and Wren got up from her spot near their fire and stretched.

"Are you going to the river, my heart?" the Dwarf asked, the mouthpiece of his pipe between his teeth. She noded to her husband, picked up a fresh tunic and a lump of soap from her bag, and turned to Lothiriel.

"Are you coming, Lothiriel?" she offered, and the girl shook her head. Wren gave her an attentive look over. The Princess looked pale, and somewhat unwell. Wren wondered if the girl was suffering from monthly pains and just did not want to disclose it in male company.

Both women were fond of cleanliness; they had been bathing in every pond, lake, or river on their path, but it had been three days since they last had an opportunity. Despite his grumbling Aglahad had been commissioned with quite a large supply of soap to purchase in Pinnath Gelin. When settling for the camp, they had seen a small stream running North from them, and Wren could not wait to finally drag dirty clothes off herself, and scrub and lather her skin.

"I shall go with you, then," the King rose, and started cleaning his pipe. Wren gaped at him. He then turned to Aglahad. "You are staying to look after Princess, laddie. Do not let me down."

It was an obvious jest, and Aglahad - who had been following the King like a pup, ogling him in awe and respect, almost immediately after the first altercation - smiled and preened up dramatically.

"I do not need to be looked after," Lothiriel hissed, and the King gave her a measuring look.

They seemed to have grown accustomed to each other recently, and while Aglahad preferred Wren's company, hours spent in amicable conversations between them, Lothiriel would now mostly ride side by side with the King. Her current mood was reminiscent of their first interactions.

"You need rest, my lady," the King answered softly, not biting the bait, and then he stepped to her and whispered something in her ear. She gave him a bewildered disbelieving look, and he patted her shoulder.

Wren waved to the youngsters, and went to the stream, followed by the King.

The water was clean and crispy cold, and Wren pulled off her boots. She tested the water with her toes, and then heard a buckle on the King's brigandine clank behind her. A small smile danced on Wren's lips. To think of it, they had not had any time alone since they departed from Dol Amroth. The King, apparently, had the same thought, since a pair of strong arms wrapped around Wren and he pushed his nose into the hair on her nape.

And then he picked her up, making her squeal gleefully and dangle her legs in the air. Wren noted that he walked them backwards to the nearest shrubs, and not to the stream, dragging her after him, and she feigned confusion.

"But washing, my lord? Shall we not?.." She did not get a chance to finish her question, and she laughed into the greedy, hungry kiss that he spun her into.

* * *

"I want to spend the night right here, just like this. And perhaps, couple more days after that," the King muttered into Wren's skin, his lips softly brushing to her neck, and she untangled from his embrace and rose.

"We cannot. We have already indulged too much. The sun is down." She picked up the soap and looked at him over her shoulder. He was sitting on their clothes, scattered on the ferns and moss, and Wren smiled to him lovingly. His hair was disheveled, the collar of his tunic untied in a hurry, but most of the undergarments still on him.

"Come, my heart," she murmured and wiggled her fingers in the air, beckoning him.

They washed, hissing and yelping, as the water had grown even colder. Wren dashed out of the stream, and he followed. They dressed quickly after that, and while Wren was hastily squeezing water out of her hair, the King stood pensively watching the dark glassy surface of the stream.

"Wren, look..." he called her softly, and she turned.

Fireflies danced in the darkness, above the small green hill across the stream from them.

"Fireflies… Dain's favourite…" Wren whispered, and their eyes met. They did not have to discuss it, but they both had one passionate aspiration these days. The closer they were to Rivendell, the further North they travelled - the closer they were to Erebor. And there, they would see their children.

They watched the dancing lights for a few short minutes, their hands intertwined, shoulders pressed together, and then she pulled him back to the camp.

* * *

Aglahad was sitting, watching the flames, while Lothiriel seemed to be in slumber on her bedroll. She slept curled in a tight ball, one fist tucked under her cheek, and Wren frowned. The girl had only seen eighteen Springs in her life. This journey could not possibly be easy for her.

"You were not much older when you went on yours," the King softly whispered into her ear, and Wren stared at him. After so many years of marriage they indeed had an uncanny ability to guess each other's thoughts, and yet she hoped she did hide her sympathy and some sort of piercing pity towards the girl well. The Princess would not be happy to find out what a child she was in Wren's eyes.

"My situation was different. I had something to fight for," Wren answered softly. She stepped closer and pulled the cloak over Lothiriel's sleeping form.

They returned to their rolls, and Aglahad promised to soon wake them up to take his place on outlook. Wren pressed into Thorin, feeling warm and safe in his arms.

"I had the man I loved to fight for," Wren whispered. She knew he was awake. "Lothiriel might be leading hers onto a perilous path..."

"The boy came on his own accord," the King corrected softly. "And besides, I do not think he is the one."

"There is no such thing as the one." Wren softly brushed her fingers to his palm, and he caught them. "I know that the Khazad believe in it… But I believe we decide our own destiny..." Wren yawned. "At least when it comes to the choice of whom to love..."

"You would know. You made a strange one," the King jested and kissed the top of her head." Wren snorted, and nudged the King with her knee.

"Sleep, my lord. I know how fond you are of gossip, but we will have to wake up soon," Wren teased, and he yawned as well.

"Aye, and besides, I am exhausted… I am afraid, in the woods I have been attacked by a small but ferocious beast..."

Wren gave him another nudge, he chuckled warmly, and they quieted, their breathing measuring, and their hearts beating in unison.


	7. Dark Woods

The next day Wren who had gotten up the earliest could not wake Lothiriel. The girl burnt, her face was ashen, sweat glistened on the temples. Wren called to her husband, who was picking up their waterskins to refill them in the stream.

"She is ill, Thorin." Wren frowned, quickly examining the Princess. There were no visible wounds, or sores, but her breathing was shallow and spasmodic, and her now white lips moved, whispering something. Wren leaned in closer.

"Seek for the sword that was broken… Isildur's Bane… The Halfling… Forgive me, Father..."

"Was is wrong with her?" Aglahad asked, kneeling near the Princess. Wren looked at him in sympathy. She could see his love and devotion for the girl, and Wren's heart ached for him.

"We need to move. We need to find a settlement, of Men, or otherwise. I need herbs, and she needs a bed." Aglahad did not seem to listen. His eyes were roaming Lothiriel's face, and he lifted his hand to touch hers, but did not seem to dare.

"C'mon, laddie. You will take her on your horse, and we will ride." Thorin clapped his palm to the boy's shoulder, shaking him out of his agitated state. Aglahad nodded, and led his horse up to where the Princess was lying. He settled in the saddle, with her body leaned against his, and Wren and Thorin mounted their ponies hastily.

A narrow valley lay between two chains of Mountains of Ered Nimrais, thick dark pine woods covering it. The four travellers who had been riding uphill for quite a while now, stopped on the edge of the forest. Thorin was the first to stop his pony.

"Aglahad, halt," Wren called after the young man, and he looked back over his shoulder. Wren signalled him to join her and her husband.

"We need to haste!" the squire shouted to them, without returning to them.

"We need to stop and think," Wren answered to him. "We cannot just ride into the woods. We need some scouting first. You do not want to fall in a hunter's trap, or receive a poisoned arrow in your eye."

Aglahad seemed to doubt, but Wren rode to her husband without waiting for the boy. She knew he would concede soon.

"So, my heart," Thorin spoke, watching the dark forest from under his hand. "What does your famous clairvoyance tell you?"

"That we are being watched..." Wren's eyes were also trained on the shadows between the pines. "And that I should go in first, to talk to them." Thorin hummed, without turning to her.

"And you know my answer as well, no doubt," he drew out.

"Aye, I do." Wren chuckled. "Your first urge is to be a brute and an imperious husband, and tell me to stay behind."

Their eyes met, and Wren gave him a small soft smile.

"Well, my little bird, I am no rash boy, I am a twice dead Dwarf with almost six decades of marriage behind me. So, I will just smoke my pipe and wait for you here." Wren could not hold back laughter.

"Just as Amrod, son of Mablung once suggested to you." Thorin cringed in feigned disdain.

"You just had to bring up the Gondorian! Although if memory serves me right, he suggested it after you one-handedly annihilated the army of Azog's bastard son, so the advice is sound."

"I did use two hands," Wren answered giggling, and wiggled her fingers in the air.

"Be careful, my heart," Thorin asked, his voice and expression growing serious. "We do not know how well you control your gift. And we do not know what the Forest Men are like."

Wren nodded earnestly. By the time they dismounted, Aglahad had approached them.

"Lady Wren?" he asked in confusion.

"It is alright, Aglahad. I shall go and look around. The Sun is setting soon, and I have a convenient way of lightening my path." Wren could see a small grin to curve up her husband's lips.

"You could not possibly be thinking of going there alone!" the boy exclaimed, and his eyes shifted on the Dwarf. "My lord, surely..."

"The men of forest will not greet a Dwarf cordially. We had lived in these mountains for centuries before, and though I know nothing of them, I doubt they have fond memories of my people. And Lady Wren has ways to protect herself."

Aglahad gave Wren a dubious look over. Her Dwarven sword - her husband's childhood blade that she had rarely used and carried with her more out of respect; and which she had been apparently buried with - was clasped to her belt, but she knew of course she did not look like a capable warrior to Aglahad. And Wren was just not vainglorious enough to flaunt her gift before the boy unnecessarily.

"And I am certain my lineage will give me the credential I might need," Wren said, and stepped to her husband. He pulled her into tight embrace, his palm cupping the back of her head in a familiar gesture. She pressed her forehead to his.

"Light up a fire, and make sure she is comfortable," Wren whispered, and felt him give a small nod.

"Be careful, _"_ Thorin whispered in return. "Come back to me."

"I always do." They lips almost touched, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin.

She closed her eyes for an instant, and then decisively stepped away from him.

* * *

Half an hour later, she was carefully finding her path through thick undergrowth of the woods, when she felt a presence to her left. She stopped, taking slow breath in. Wren could feel her magic warm up the center of her right palm, but she did not allow it to bloom fully. She slowly turned her head, and met a pair of eyes - red and glowing - studying her from the stark shadow between trees.

"I am Wren, a healer of Men," she spoke in Sindarin, assuming that if any, that would be the language a Druedan would know since they had to deal with the people of Dol Amroth. "I seek help for my ill companion."

The person in the dark did not answer, and Wren lifted her hands showing she was unarmed. That was a lie - she could feel her magic flare up in her veins, ready to encircle her into a protective shield that she had learnt to conjure around herself ten years after she had come into her gift.

"A woman in my family knew your Ghan," Wren continued. She decided that mentioning that it had been her grandmother would be unwise, since too much time had passed for that to seem true. "People knew her under the name of Ammala. She was a blind healer."

The person shifted, the eyes blinked, and disappeared in the woods. Wren waited, and a few minutes later she was proved to have chosen the right behaviour. The bushes rustled, and two Druedain stepped out onto the small path Wren had been following for a few minutes.

They were shorter than Men of Gondor and Rohan, but still a head taller than her. Their legs were short, stumpy, disproportionate to their wide heavy bodies, and the arms were long, with spade like hands. Bushy tangled hair grew on their heads, and beady eyes were glistening under thick eyebrows. Something animalistic and primitive was in their appearance, but Wren knew better than to judge a drink by the jug.

"Our forefathers knew Ammala," one of the Druedain spoke, its speech raspy and garbled. "The White Witch."

"Aye," Wren agreed. "I am asking for your aid. My companion needs rest and care."

The Druedain exchanged a few coarse words in their own language.

"A man and two children outside the woods..." one of them snarled. "Are these your companions?" Wren quickly asked herself whether it was Thorin who was considered the man among the company - for his age; or he was deemed a child - for his size; and she made a mental note to tease him about it later.

"They are. Allow me to bring them to your settlement."

"No. We will bring them. You go. Ghan wants to see the Daughter of Ammala."

One of the Druedain quickly moved back into the shadows, and the other one pointed to Wren at the path she was standing on.

"Go. I will follow."

Wren nodded, lowering her hands. The magic was still pulsating, agitated by her keeping her guard up, but she walked confidently, feeling the unblinking gaze of the Duedan between her shoulder blades.

* * *

The settlement was a collection of wooden houses, hardly raised above the ground, with dirt roofs, and entrances so low that even the settlers would clearly have to slouch to come in. There seemingly were no windows in them; and everything in the village seemed of dark, earthy colours. Wren stepped from between the trees, and several Druedain halted what they were doing and stared at her. There were children, playing on the ground, their faces dirty, and clothes of furs and same coarse linen as the trousers and tunics of the adults. The same beady eyes on flat expressionless faces were looking at Wren from everywhere, and she took a deep breath calming herself.

"Are you the Daughter of Ammala?" a loud voice came from the central, biggest hut, and Wren turned to face the Ghan of Druedain.

He seemed taller than the rest, the hair was dark and had silver streaks in it, among the twigs and branches weaved in it. His torso was muscular, and since he was bare except for the trousers, crudely sewn of skins, Wren could see scars covering his chest and stomach. Among the traces of talons and claws, Wren could see the white jagged relics left by the blades of Orcs.

"I am Wren. Ammala was my mother' mother. She told me of the Ghan she had met in these woods, and of how she saved his life after an adder bite."

"That Ghad had a son, and he had a son after him, and two more sons came after it, and then I came," the man spoke and walked up to her. Red glimmered in the depth of his black eyes, and yet Wren was not afraid.

The black eyes ran her body.

"She was told to be like a yearling. Long legs, and no meat." Something changed in his tone, and Wren suspected that when this Ghan spoke of meat, it was not from the alleged cannibalistic tendencies that Lothiriel accused the Druedain of. It was quite a different hunger that burnt in his eyes. "You are of the same kind."

"I have more strength than Ammala had," Wren answered. "I can see. And I can kill. Ammala never took a life."

The Druedan look at her down his nose, and Wren jerked her chin up. She knew she impressed him, when he snarled at her. She assumed that was a Wose equivalent of a lopsided grin.

A noise came from the edge of the woods, and Wren turned to see the Druedan she had met earlier rush onto the clearing the village stood on. He was followed by Aglahad who was carrying Lothiriel in his arms, and Thorin walking after him, in his usual confident manner, as if it were every day that he would enter a dwelling of half-mythical tribe of unknown creatures.

"The girl is sick. I suspect it is a fever. I need medicinal herbs, and she needs to rest," Wren addressed Ghan, who was eyeing the newcomers suspiciously. "They are my friends. And the man is my husband."

Ghad shifted his eyes at her face.

"Husband?" He frowned, and Wren wondered if marriage existed in their culture.

"My mate. The father of my children."

"He is too young for you," Ghan said, and Wren noted to herself that now she knew how her companions were perceived at least by the Druendan leader. She wondered why Ghan would think so, though, since she looked as her twenty five year old self, and she had always seemed younger than her years.

"Not the tall one. Him," she said, and pointed at Thorin. He was by then assuredly marching towards her.

The two men looked each other over, and Wren tensed. Over the years she had learnt to recognise the signs of - unreasonable and unfounded, in her opinion - animosity that her Dwarven husband would sometimes take to towards certain males, be they of Men, Dwarves, and even Elves. There was some sort of a strife that would overcome the King Under the Mountain, and no rational arguments would help him make peace with that person. Such had always been his relationship with the Elvenking Thranduil; a few Dwarven lords; and King Bard of Dale. The same treatment had been received by any male that Thorin, son of Thrain would inexplicably grow jealous of. It had happened quite rarely, almost never, since Wren was hardly an alluring woman, in the eyes of males of any race. Except - Wren was realising in apprehension - apparently, for a Drunedan leader. That was most unfortunate.

"Thorin, son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain, Lord of Silver Fountains, Lord of..." Wren started an introduction, only to be interrupted by Ghan's bark.

"A Dwarf? No Dwarves live in these Mountains anymore. You lost your shining caves. It is Orc land now. My brothers who live in Tawar-in-Druedain fight them and die. Blood is spilled every moon." The snarl that decorated Ghan's face now was hardly a smile.

"There are more of your people in Gondor?" Wren repeated in surprise. "Tawar-in-Druedain is the name of the forest North of Minath Tirith."

"We do not care about the stone house folk," Ghan spat out. "Like these two!" he pointed his long thick finger at Aglahad and Lothiriel in his arms. "We are people of the woods. The sick child can stay. And the Daughter of Ammala can stay. But the boy and the Dwarf have to go."

And just an instant before the fracas started, Wren wondered which of the two men would start yelling first.

"Over my dead body!" Aglahad pressed Lothiriel tighter to his chest, and made a step backwards.

The gesture and the shout might have seemed childish, but Wren knew better. She had seen him spar with Thorin by the campfire enough times to know that he was deadly with the long sword strapped currently to his back. He was tall and had an excellent reach; he was also fast and cunning, with surprisingly grace in his lanky body. And despite his generally kind and soft disposition, Wren knew he never shied from a fight. His narrow crooked nose - broken in a street fight against seven men - was an excellent proof of his readiness to engage any adversary.

The Dwarf said nothing, but Wren heard an unmistakable sound of his blade - Deathless - sliding out of the scabbard.

Wren shifted, placing herself between her companions and Ghan; she lifted her hands, one palm open in front of each of the two men - a Dwarf and a Druedan - gnashing their teeth at each other.

"Thorin, we need their help. Lothiriel does," she reminded the Dwarf in a cautioning tone.

"Singe couple of their posteriors, and I am sure they will gladly show us hospitality." The Dwarven King's lips twisted in a venomous grin. "But leave this one to me."

"Thorin, I do not wish any altercation. I am sure their hospitality will bring more merit if it is sincere."

"I change my order now," Ghad spoke, and Wren looked at him askew. The wider snarl he was now sporting did not promise anything good. "The boy can stay. But the Dwarf will go back, out of the woods."

Wren glared at Ghan, and he looked back at her and licked his lips. Thorin made a step ahead, and Wren sighed deeply. From the corner of her eye, Wren caught the view of Aglahad swiftly but gently placing Lothiriel on the ground, and then Ghan jumped ahead.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

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 **rodhina dot kolmakov dot ca**

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Also available on the blog:

 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 ** _Blind Carnival_** , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

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* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	8. Dawn Comes

**A/N: Due to personal reasons, I took a small break from writing FF. I'm back now! :)**

 **Nonetheless, while away, I still updated as per scehdule:**

 **\- my new cheery story _Fairy Wars_ on AO3 (same nick kkolmakov) about Faun!Thorin and Pixie!Wren (updated every Monday and Thursday); **

**\- my romance/mystery parody on JukePop (Thorin as a grumpy Canadian farmer :P on Thursdays);**

 **\- and finally, I updated** _ **Dr T Series**_ **on my blog (kolmakov dot ca). Give the latter a look, if you feel like it. The story is very dear to me. It was my first modern ThorinxWren AU, and this week I wrote a very difficult, emotional chapter. I'd love to share it with you.**

 **Don't forget, following my Facebook page is the easiest way to get all the news about my writing and my art. Also, all my links can be found on my blog (kolmakov dot ca).**

 **Yours truly,**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

Wren was glad to see that the precision of a blast she had achieved through her training over the years was still with her. She did manage to direct most of the wave of her magic towards the Druedan, and less into the chest of her Dwarven husband. It was less fortunate that she seemed to have less control over the power of her blow. Both men were thrown backwards, in the opposite directions, flying couple dozen feet, and then still were dragged by inertia, through the viscous mud on the village ground.

"Enough!" Wren barked, discreetly glancing to make sure she had not maimed her husband. Thankfully, the King was dirty but unscathed. He rose on his feet, deftly, and swirled the sword in his hand.

The Ghan, meanwhile, was groaning, rubbing his chest, the hair singed on it. He then sat up and shook his head, no doubt trying to rid himself of ringing in his ears.

"I said, enough," Wren asserted, and glared at the Druedan. "We came asking for your help. If you refuse, we will leave. But I will not have you attack myself or my companions."

The Ghan lifted his eyes at her, but instead of rage she expected, she saw his eyes twinkle in some sort of wild joy.

"Strong one," he rasped, and licked his lips again. "Ammala had strength. The men feared her. But they wanted her too."

The King shifted, and Wren saw him scowl from the corner of her eye.

"The man should fight for his woman. Will you fight, Dwarf?" the Ghan asked, without tearing his eyes off Wren.

"I am the one standing. Get up and face me." Thorin predictably sounded very eager.

"We do not fight with swords. Not when we fight for a woman." The Ghan finally turned to the King. Thorin threw his sword to the side, and beckoned the Druedan with an open hand, in a taunting gesture.

"We are not fighting for a woman, man of forest." Apparently, the King decided to clarify the situation. It was wise since he was well aware that Wren did not enjoy feeling like a chicken at a village fair that men would break their knuckles over! "We will just spar, aye?"

As if to make Wren even more outraged, understanding ran between two men, and the Druedan nodded.

"No, not for a woman. Just to make the blood run."

Wren wanted to yell at them, among other things reminding the King that they had a sick child on their hands, but she felt too furious with him to bestow him with a word.

She turned her back to both men, and walked to Aglahad, who was once again holding the Princess in his arms. Lothiriel's forehead felt hot under Wren's palm, and she looked over the Princess' ashen face in worry.

"Give shelter and help to my companions, and I am all yours," the King spoke behind Wren, and she looked back. The men were facing each other, the King was dragging off the second layer of his clothing, the Druedan was waiting, shifting his shoulders impatiently.

"Show them to the Big House," he threw over his shoulder to the women who stood by the fence, watching what was transpiring, their faces frightened and concerned. "Give them anything they need, and bring the healer."

"Thorin," Wren called to her husband, and his hands on the clasps on his waistcoat paused. Wren continued in Khuzhdul, "If he breaks your bones, do not expect my sympathy, my lord."

He smirked to her, and she narrowed her eyes at him in cold fury.

"Stay, daughter of Ammala," the Ghan addressed her. "Watch which man is strong."

"I know which man is strong," Wren gritted through her teeth in disdain. "I am yet to see a smart one."

The Ghan emitted a low raspy bark, which was probably a laugh, and Wren twirled on her heels and followed the woman who was beckoning her. Aglahad followed.

"Is it wise, my lady?" he whispered, stooping to enter a Drunedain house.

"We will keep our eyes open, Aglahad," Wren reassured him. The local woman bowed and left them.

The house had a low ceiling, dirt floor, and no windows. A heath burnt in the center. The house was clean and dry nonetheless, and a row of wide benches - that could serve as a seat or a bed - stood by the walls.

A young girl entered, her dark eyes running them in curiosity, and she pushed some folded furs and linen into Wren's hands. She was dirty head to toe, but looked healthy and well fed.

She then spoke something in the throaty language of the Druedain, and then mimicked eating with her hands.

"Yes, please. And we need water, a lot of clean water." Wren made a gesture as if drinking and then washing, and the girl smiled and disappeared outside.

Some noise came from outside. Wren had little doubt that it was the sound of falling bodies. A long intricate swearing in Khuzdul confirmed Wren's suspicions.

"Mahal help me, just like with Amrod… Will he ever grow up?" Wren muttered in irritation.

"My lady, you seem to care little that lord Thorin might get injured or killed!" Aglahad hissed a choked whisper, and Wren gave him an exasperated look.

"I do care, but I need to attend to your Princess first." Wren came up to the skin that hung covering the entrance and pulled it aside, opening a small crack.

Outside, the Druedan and the Dwarf were circling each other, both already covered in mud, and Wren could see the side of King's face bleeding. As worried as she was to see him injured, the lightness of the wound gave her hope. The fight indeed seemed more like a sparring than a duel. The Druedan was limping, favouring the left side. Clearly, as many before him, he had underestimated the King in a hand to hand combat, and the Dwarf's ambidexterity had been a nasty surprise to yet another of his opponents!

Wren let another woman in. This one was older, and cleaner. She showed Wren a large basket she had brought, and Wren saw familiar medicinal herbs. She was going to ask for hot water, when the same girl from before came in, with a large cauldron she was dragging behind her with difficulty. Wren thanked both of them, and started on the draughts. Aglahad was told to sit and press cool cloth to the Princess' forehead.

A few minutes later some loud screaming came from outside. Once again, it did not sound too alarming. The voice was female, and had some sort of mocking tone to it. Wren instructed Aglahad to stir the brew, and peeked outside.

A tall Druedain woman with white hair was standing in front of the Ghan, shouting something harsh into his face, and poking his chest with her crooked finger. Wren recognised the scene as if it were explained to her in details. She had been in the same situation myriad times, when one of her sons - driven by their Dwarven blood, no doubt - would find himself in a dangerous situation that had no obvious reason to even take place. She of course never poked her children; neither had she placed a wide and loud smack at the back of their heads, like the white haired woman; but the tone and the glare were only familiar.

The King stood a few steps away, breathing heavily. The other side of his face was growing swollen and purple as well, and Wren returned inside, with a scornful huff.

"What is happening there?" Aglahad asked, and Wren picked up the wooden spoon out of his hand and sent him back to where Lothiriel lay.

After a few minutes the King appeared in the entrance, battered but - to Wren's ever rising irritation - trying to hide a smile, and Wren ignored him. Aglahad looked between them, not sure what to say, and decided on keeping his mouth shut. Wren could only congratulate him on a wise decision. The King dropped on the nearest bench. Wren saw him press his hand over his ribs. He also was carefully touching his broken lip with the tip of his tongue, and Wren gritted her teeth.

The skin on the entrance was moved, and the white haired woman stuck her head inside. Her eyes ran the scene.

"You," she addressed Wren in a harsh, displeased voice. "Outside."

The King stirred on his seat, intending to rise, but Wren pinned him down with a glare, pointed at the brew with her eyes to direct Aglahad, and went outside.

"You are the witch?" the woman asked, sizing Wren up, looking her over.

"Aye. I am the daughter of Ammala." Wren jerked her chin up. The semblance was obvious - the woman was the Ghan's mother. She was just as tall, and wide, and the black eyes were burning like embers.

"Stupid men fight for you," the woman grumbled and shook her head. "Will you stay?" Wren frowned not understanding the meaning. "When the child is healthy..." The woman pointed at the house. "Will you stay? Ammala stayed. Took two our men. But there was no child, she was old. Will you stay?"

"No, I already have a man. And four children. When the girl is healthy, we will leave." Wren gave it a thought and added. "I do not want your men."

The Druedan scrutinized Wren's face, and then nodded, with relief clearly written on her face.

"Ghan loves old stories. Ammala is a story. Good story." The woman sighed with universal motherly exasperation. "You are not Ammala."

"I am Wren." Wren smiled to the woman. "And I need to travel, across the Mountains to my children. I only need herbs and care for my companion."

"Good."

Ghan's mother turned away and left. Wren looked around. Villagers stood near their houses, their expressions varying from curious to frightened. The Ghan was nowhere to be seen. Wren sighed, and went back inside.

* * *

The next morning, after a sleepless night, Wren was glad to see the Princess come around. Some colouring returned to her cheeks, and just after the dawn she opened her eyes. Aglahad who had been sitting blindly staring at the wall was immediately near her, and Wren saw the Princess weakly lift her hand. The fingers of the young couple intertwined, and the boy pressed the back of the Princess' hand to his lips.

Wren turned away giving them privacy.

"She is fortunate you are such an excellent healer," the King spoke softly from the bench he had been half sitting, half lying on, since he had come in the evening before. Wren felt her temper rise, now that her undivided attention was not required on the girl's state.

"She is fortunate we did not get slain in this village. We surely made a wrong impression," Wren gritted through her teeth, and went back to her cauldron. More brews were to be made.

Some time later the same girl from the day before brought them more food. It was mostly roasted game and fowl, mushrooms, nuts, and roots, and boiled wild oats. Wren indeed had not seen any domesticated animals in the village, given she had paid little attention to her surroundings before.

Wren took some of the oats, and having asked the girl for more water and another pot, she started making a soft, thinner dish for Lothiriel. Meanwhile, the King and Aglahad were eating, and this time the village girl did not leave. Wren threw a look from the corner of her eye at her and watched her wander the house.

Aglahad seemed to interest the girl little. She came up to him, eyed him up and down with an inquisitive look, and then asked curtly, "Stone house man?" Aglahad nodded, stuffing food into his mouth, the spoon moving relentlessly. Now, that the Princess was out of imminent danger, his young body clearly craved sustenance. Wren would not be surprised if he fell asleep after the last spoonful of food was swallowed.

"From the big water?" the girl asked, and Aglahad nodded again. There was a strange lilt to the girl's voice, but unlike when it came to adult Druendan, in her voice it was almost melodic.

She scoffed and moved to the King. He was sitting on the wide bench now, with plate full and untouched in his hands. Wren knew that he was waiting for her, out of courtesy, and also in attempt to snatch a moment to start his groveling.

"Dwarf?" the girl asked and pointed at the King. He smiled to her, and nodded.

She was perhaps six or seven Springs old, short legged and wide, a large disheveled head sat on a short neck. The ears were big, pressed tightly to her skull, and just as all of the girl's self, dirty. Overall, she seemed uniformly covered in mud.

She then stretched her hand and picked up a thick braid that hung on the side of the King's face. Its end was decorated with an intricately carved bead, of dark green jasper.

"Juicy," the girl muttered, her eyes burning with the greedy hunger, so familiar to Wren. That was the look of a child who just saw a new and shiny toy. Perhaps there was not word for 'pretty' in the girl's vocabulary, but a child's love for trinkets was universal.

The King put his plate aside and pulled the bead off the braid. He then closed his fist around it and hid both his hands behind his back. He then presented girl with two fists, and she laughed and tapped his left hand. The palm slowly opened before her eyes, and she made a snort like noise - it was empty. The King chuckled and repeated the game. This time the girl had guessed right, and the green bead travelled into her hand.

Memories flooded Wren's mind, and she turned away hastily hiding her no doubt emotional face. Pictures and sounds rushed through her mind: Thror laughing loudly, on the King's lap, a silver rattle in his chubby hand; Unna still unstable on her legs then, walking in the Inner Halls, holding firmly to the King's index finger; Dain and Othin, ever so inseparable, running in circles around the King's legs, squealing, and pulling at his trousers, wooden spoons in their hands, used for fencing just as any elongated object that ended up in their possession.

They were men now, and Unna had bloomed into the smart and confident woman Wren had known she would become. They were warriors, heirs of Durin, and some sort of apprehension clenched around Wren's heart. She fought the thought, and yet she asked herself, whether she would be welcome in their new lives. She would look nothing like their mother to them - a scrap of a girl again.

A high barking laughter at the background shook Wren out of her agitation. The girl was on the King's lap already, pulling at more of his braids, this time just playing with them, snortling in glee from how the silky plaits slid between her fingers.

"Round! Juicy!" she squeaked, and then grabbed the King's long nose. "Good man! Warrior! Ghan still bleeds!" There was sincere admiration in the girl's voice, and adoration coloured her expression. The King chuckled, and Wren pursed her lips, irked by another reminder of the King's unreasonable behaviour.

The skin on the door moved again, and Ghan's mother stuck her head inside. She looked around the house, and Wren saw the King grow still. Aglahad unconsciously shifted shielding the Princess, and the girl on the King's lap quieted and hid into him.

"You, the witch. My son will speak to you now. In his house."

Wren straightened up and wiped her hands on the clean rug from her bag.

"Wren..." the King started, only to close his mouth sharply under her glare. She surely had had enough of his proprietary behaviour! She could take care of herself, and it was still unclear whether his playing along with Ghan was favourable or harmful for their case.

Wren jerked her chin up and followed the old woman outside.

* * *

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 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

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 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

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 _Summary:_ A spinster librarian, the ghost of a 1900s British naval officer, and a Canadian dreamboat come together in a story that will make a harlequin novel pale in comparison when it comes to cliches, hackneyed turns of speech, and predictable plot twists.

Etta Ryan, a prude and a bluestocking, led on a journey to a mysterious place called Winnipeg, Manitoba, will encounter on her path an unnaturally attractive Canadian farmer, mysterious numbers disclosed to a long dead British officer at a medium seance, a treasure map, a secret cave, and much more. Welcome to the story where plot will make some sense, and erotica is abundant and gratuitous!

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* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	9. Meeting on the Road

**Author's note:**

 **If you're interested in what else I'm writing - and drawing - please, check out my blog: kolmakov dot ca. My update schedule and links are in the latest post.**

 **And now, to Middle Earth! :)**

* * *

Lady Wren was back half an hour or so later, and Aglahad watched her come into the house and go back to her cauldron. He looked at her husband and saw drawn brows and stormy expression. To be honest, Aglahad just could not understand the couple. Not only they were of different races, and some sort of a mystery was in their past, which neither them, nor Lothiriel had shared with him; their manners and their ways were confusing. Lady Wren showed very little reverence towards her husband, treating him as if they were equal; and at the moment, even as if he were inferior! Her lips were pressed in a stern line, and apparently she did not feel compelled to tell her husband of what she had spoken to the beastly man who had fought him!

"We will leave tomorrow if the Princess recovers sufficiently," Lady Wren suddenly spoke, and Aglahad realised it was intended for him. He nodded uncertainly, and looked at Lothiriel. She slept, but unlike before her breathing was even and deep. She was not burning anymore, and even had eaten some of the vegetable and root stew she had been offered.

The rest of the day passed in peace. Lothiriel rested, ate, and even stayed awake for the second half of the day. Lady Wren sat with the two of them and told them of what she knew of the village they were in. Lord Thorin remained in his corner, cleaning and preparing his weapons. They were now to leave in the morning.

At night, Lady Wren walked in the furthest corner and curled in a ball on a bench. She fell asleep immediately, clearly exhausted after tending to Lothiriel for two days straight. That was the first time since Aglahad followed them from the gates of Dol Amroth that he saw the red haired woman sleeping anywhere but in her husband's arms. If previously their constant closeness seemed odd and somewhat inappropriate to Aghalad, he now realised that their coldness was much more alarming and disquieting.

* * *

In the next fortnight of their travel Aglahad kept on asking himself the same question: how long was this ridiculous feud between the couple was going to continue? Both of them were in the foulest of moods, but still friendly and amicable with Lothiriel and himself, though Lord Thorin was doing a worse job of it. With each passing day, he was growing darker in the face and grumpier. Aghalad would perhaps be able to ignore this preposterous drama if only Lothiriel was not absurdly preoccupied with it. Her attempts to engage both of them in a conversation at the same time were getting on Aglahad's nerves! What did she want from them? To start kissing and cooing with each other?!

Thankfully, Lothiriel's health had improved rather quickly. Three days after they left the village of the Druedain she could already ride the horse.

Altogether, Aglahad was feeling much better about this unexpected adventure of his. In the hindsight, following Lothiriel had been a foolish idea, but riding with her, through the lands he had only heard stories of, watching her raven hair and noble posture and confident set of her head, he felt pride and admiration fill his heart. Lord Thorin and Lady Wren had been wrong, though. He was not at all enamoured with her! She was his future queen, and being by her side was his duty!

* * *

The crossing of River Isen was hard. They lost one of the horses, and the misfortune put Lord Thorin and his wife into an even more irked state. Lady Wren, responsible for the animal at the time, had to be dragged out of the stream of the ford, and she hissed something in the Dwarven tongue to her husband, who was pulling at her arm, while she was still trying to grasp the reins.

"Do not be foolish! It is lost!" he barked at her, and she jerked her arm back from him with a glare.

They rode in pairs after that, taking turns. Lady Wren was so small that Aglahad doubted either of the animals noticed her weight added to the saddle, but the constant changing of positions only aggravated the tension. Besides other frustrations, the woman was clearly trying to avoid sharing the saddle with her husband.

Two days after the crossing of the Fords of Isen, they reached the remnants of the North-South Road, and started following it North.

One morning, Aglahad was woken up by Lothiriel screaming in her sleep. Lady Wren was near her in an instant.

"Lothiriel! What is it?"

"The darkness… The darkness…" The Princess was gasping for breath, and Lord Thorin scooted near her, handing her a waterskin.

"Drink. It will help you. What darkness?" The Dwarf patted her back in a comforting gesture.

"In my dream, I saw the darkness… And the prophecy was repeated again, only this time I was told to wait for the man."

"What man?" Lady Wren's tone was soft.

"A Gondorian… I was told to wait for the Gondorian here, on the road. He is coming. The Captain."

"Wonderful." Lord Thorin's tone grew cold and even hostile. "A Gondorian Captain. Would you like to wager your herbs we know him, my heart?" he asked his wife in a venomous tone, and she whipped her head and gave him an infuriated glare.

"Do you have to bring up the past every time?" she hissed, losing her composure. Aglahad assumed she was indeed in rage, since previously she had never spoken out of terms with her husband. "And I am certain it has nothing to do with Amrod. It has been years!"

"Forgive me, my Queen," the King sneered, "but you cannot argue that there are parallels! Prophetic dreams, a quest, and now a Gondorian captain!"

"And you beating yet another man to pulp for no reason!" Lady Wren barked back, and the Dwarf snarled.

"I had a reason! You are my wife, and it is my right to defend what is rightfully mine!"

Lady Wren did not answer, her face twisted in a grimace, and then she jumped on her feet and stomped away.

Lord Thorin rose as well and walked back to their fire. Aglahad came up to Lothiriel.

"They need to make peace, it is becoming unbearable..." the Princess whispered, and Aglahad saw her distressed eyes. "It is just not right..."

"She needs to learn to respect him. I assume she is just young, that is why..." Aglahad mumbled, sitting down near her, and suddenly Lothiriel started laughing, merrily and sincerely. Aglahad looked her over in confusion.

"I am afraid you just would not believe the truth," she finally said, shaking her head. "But at the moment, I am just worried their dispute endangers our quest. They are to be here and to travel with me, and it just does not feel right when they are like that."

Aglahad ignored all the mawkish talk, but he had to agree. Travel companions who did not wish to agree on anything were indeed a perilous thing to find when on a journey.

Lothiriel rose and went up to the Dwarf who was now sitting on his roll, smoking his pipe, his face dark.

"Lord Thorin, I was told in my dream to wait for the Gondorian on the road. I think we should..."

"We will wait here," the Dwarf interrupted her in a peeved tone. "Go get water. There is a stream a few steps to the East." His words sounded more like a command than the polite requests he usually had given, but Lothiriel simply nodded, picked up waterskins, and walked away. Aglahad followed her.

* * *

The next two days were even worse than the previous weeks of travels. Without actual travelling to distract them from the irritation bubbling behind the dignified facades of the couple, them camping on the side of the road, hours filled with gloomy silence were bothering even Aglahad. Lady Wren who had returned several hours after she had stormed away the first morning, now stopped talking even to the Princess. She just sat by the fire, her eyes trained on it, or wandered around gathering herbs.

The day Lothiriel's dream came to pass, Aglahad was helping Lothiriel mend a strap on her saddle bag. Both of them were quite used to such work, brought up to be able to fend for themselves, so they were in no hurry, just sitting with each other, enjoying a quiet moment. Lord Thorin was once again smoking, whittling something, and Lady Wren was looking after their stew.

A hardly audible rustle came from the nearby shrubs, and Aglahad froze. He could see the Dwarf continue his humming and whittling, and only then Aglahad realised that the knife in the Dwarf's hand had been at some point replaced by a throwing dagger. Lady Wren also looked unaffected, swirling the spoon in the pot - but now with her left hand, her right one fisted in a strange gesture.

"Aglahad..." Lothiriel breathed out, and then a man stepped out of the bushes.

He had an arrow ready on his long bow, the string tight in a powerful gesture. His grey eyes were intent, shifting between the members of their small company.

"Who are you?" he demanded, the point of his arrow moving from side to side. It was obvious he would not miss.

"The Gondorian..." Lady Wren spoke softly, and then Aglahad saw Lothiriel's face grew paler.

"Boromir..." Her whisper was hardly audible, and the man looked at her.

He then lowered his weapon, astonishment colouring his features.

"Lothiriel? How are you here?" The Gondorian then looked around the rest of them. Aglahad rose, squaring his shoulders.

"I am travelling North East," Lothiriel answered, rising as well. She then remembered herself. "Boromir, son of Denethor, the High Warden of White Tower. These are my companions. Lady Wren of Enedwaith, a healer from the City of Dale. Lord Thorin, son of Thrain, from the Kingdom Under the Mountain. And this is Aglahad, my squire."

Aglahad had to give her credit. The introductions were not false, and still did not deliver the full impression of the strangeness of their company.

The one called Boromir gave the Princess a low bow, and smaller ones to the redhaired woman and the Dwarf. Aglahad received a short glance. He hardly could have expected more.

"Please, join us at our fire." The Dwarf invited, and Boromir thanked him, fetched his horse, and soon they were sitting round, enjoying Lady Wren's excellent stew.

* * *

"Where are you travelling, my lord?" Lady Wren asked, decorously scooping her food. "You are quite far from your White Citadel."

"I am heading far North and East, to a place called Rivendell. I am sent there with an errand from my Father, the Steward of Gondor."

Aglahad saw the woman and the Dwarf exchange quick looks, but no one said anything. Aglahad assumed they were not to enlighten the Captain that their company shared his final destination.

"Perhaps, if you wish, we could share the difficulties of the road with you, as our path lies in the same direction," the Dwarf said in an even, nonchalant tone, and the Captain threw him a quick glance. The grey eyes of the Gondorian were narrowed.

"And where does your path lie, Master Dwarf?"

"We are travelling North, to Erebor..." the Dwarf started, and Lady Wren interrupted him.

"And since Princess Lothiriel is travelling the same way, we decided to join her. We have met in Dol Amroth."

"They saved me from the corsairs," Lothiriel chimed in.

"And your route leads to…" the Gondorian addressed the Princess in a pointed tone.

"I am on a diplomatic mission from my father. I cannot divulge more… but I will travel with you to Rivendell." Aglahad felt that her words were quite unconvincing, and her voice broke in the middle of her clumsy excuse. Aglahad had not observed Lothiriel during too many negotiations, but even he could see that she seemed more agitated than in other formal circumstances.

The Gondorian nodded, his eyes still cold and cautious.

"And you know where the mysterious land of Rivendell lies... how?"

There was a pause, and Aglahad intently watched the Gondorian's posture grow more rigid.

"It might be unknown to the people of Gondor," the calm low voice of Lord Thorin answered, and Aglahad saw him lazily light up his pipe. "But I have drunk ale at the table of Lord Elrond of Rivendell more than once. If you know the path in the mountains, it is hardly a well hidden secret."

The Gondorian Captain studied the Dwarf for a few seconds, his disposition remaining apprehensive, but then he lowered his eyes, probably hiding them.

"Well, then I will consider our meeting most fortunate," the Gondorian said, and Lord Thorin gave him a decorous nod.

* * *

In the evening Lothiriel and Aglahad were once again sent to collect water. The Princess was quiet, lost in her thoughts.

"So… You have met the Gondorian before," Aglahad drew out. "Can we trust him? Will he be a good companion in our travels?"

"He is an honourable man," Lothiriel answered grudgingly. "We have met once before. We were children then."

Aglahad had a distinct impression there was something else, but he did not dare pressing the point. They gathered water, and turned back to camp.

"We are betrothed to be married." Once Lothiriel's whisper reached his ears, Aglahad gawked at her, almost dropping the skins. "It is just an intention of our Fathers. It has never been decided firmly. But I was told that this union would be desirable for both our families…"

She then suddenly picked up speed and disappeared in the bushes surrounding the camp, leaving a bewildered Aglahad behind.


	10. Approaching Rivendell

**New year, old stories :) I have finished a few big projects (a YA fantasy novel I'm looking to pblish + "Hammer Up!" for Amazon Kindle Scout); and now I can kick back and spend more time on my fanfiction. So, this fic is definitely on the list of the stories that will now get regular updates.**

 **I've been industriously re-watching "The Fellowship of the Ring," and even got my copy of the book from the shelf. Couple volumes of other Tolkien's works fell on my head in the process, so if my spelling gets funky, blame J.R.R. :D**

 **So, to Middle Earth, my lovelies!**

 **Cheers,**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

Their further travels were uneventful. Quite quickly Thorin decided that the addition of Boromir, son of Denethor to their small company was fortunate. The Gondorian had an even direct disposition, was respectful, and thankfully lacked verbosity. These were qualities that agreed with Thorin's temper. They often sat together by the fire, smoked, and exchanged a lazy word or two.

Other members of their company, sadly, did not seem to share Thorin's opinion. Lothiriel kept her distance from her cousin; and Thorin decided it had to do with matters of the heart, which meant it was of no interest to Thorin. Aglahad was sulking and throwing the Gondorian hostile looks, which only confirmed to Thorin that he did not want to know what it was all about.

Wren's mood and opinions, on the other hand, were not something Thorin tended - or wished to - ignore. She was quiet, distant, spoke little; and if any, she addressed her words to the children. Her and Lothiriel seemed to lead some long conversations; while Aglahad received those warm encouraging smiles that their children had been the frequent recipients of. Altogether, she seemed to have taken to the younglings, and Thorin watched her discreetly, cherishing the care and softness that lit up her face when she spoke to the Princess and the lad.

Thorin thought of his sons and his daughter often. Just as they had discussed with Wren, each day of travel was bringing them closer to the Mountain; and Thorin would close his eyes and imagine Thror, Unna, Dain, and Othin, the younglings they were when he had seen them last; and tried to imagine what they were like now. Dozen years couldn't have changed them completely, they were half Dwarves after all, but still, there would be growth and maturity; and Thorin couldn't wait to see them.

The reason and the purpose of his and Wren's return were, of course, on his mind as well. And it was almost torturous to be unable to discuss it with Wren. But those few times that he had made an attempt to speak to her, she remained silent, her face cold. After a while, he stopped trying.

* * *

When there was but a day left till their arrival to Rivendell, Thorin felt it was impossible to postpone the discussion of their plans anymore - and he came up to Wren while she was sitting slightly away from the camp, mending her shirt.

He sat down near her on the ground, on the corner of her spread bedroll. Her fingers paused for a jiffy, and then she went back to work, without turning to him. He slowly lit up his pipe, exhale a few rings of thick blue smoke, and sighed.

"You know you will win," he said in a low voice, his eyes on the fire of the camp. It was just after the dawn. Aglahad and Lothiriel slept; Boromir was somewhere near, on the lookout. "You know you are right; and I am wrong. And I know it, though I know not what my fault is." He threw her a side glance; but she was still working, her face expressionless. "Ushaktul, what is the point of punishing me? You know I will accept any accusations and will repent. Take pity of the ridiculous Dwarf, and let us speak."

She finally put down her needlework and looked at him. He continued watching her askance.

"I would expect Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, to come commandeering his wife to stop pouting, speak her mind, and show appropriate respect to her royal husband," she answered venomously.

"Twice dead is twice wiser," he answered to her, and saw her lips twitch.

"So, it is your repeated death that had taught you the skill of grovelling? You are indeed improving, my lord." Her voice was less spiteful now, but the lips were still pressed tightly. Thorin had paid attention to her gesture in all those years. He needed to proceed cautiously.

"Those were decades of being married to you." The slanted green eyes warmed up, and Thorin continued, cunningly reinforcing his success, "And I was coming to roar and bark, as you always put it. But I am helpless under your cold glare."

He looked at her hands, folded on her lap, but decided it was too early to try to touch her.

"I had things to scream into your face," she muttered, and sighed deeply. "I am angered with you, and I had words as sharp as daggers to shout."

"I am all yours, ushaktul," he answered, and gave her a small smile. "Your target is prepared and open, my lady."

"It is hard to scream at a man who shows unlikely foresight to come repentful."

"If it pleases you, I could get up and stomp. I cannot promise roaring, the younglings are asleep, but I can puff up my royal chest," he drew out, and she finally gave in, and snorted.

She immediately schooled her face into a stern expression, and he pretended she had not lost her composure - yet.

"We are entering Rivendell tomorrow." He decided it was safe to start approaching the subject he came to discuss. "The Princess and the Gondorian will speak to the Elf. We will have to explain our presence here too. And we are to plan what we are to do, Wren," he spoke softly, but then noticed that she did not seem to listen. "Wren?"

She fidgeted with the thread, twirling it around her finger, and her eyes were lowered to the work.

"Wren?"

"I was angry with you, Thorin, but now I am just… sad. And… you will be too… And now I do not know how to speak of it..." she muttered confusedly, and Thorin grew silent waiting for her to continue. If anything, those decades of their marriage taught him to just let her finally express herself. She looked at him, and her eyes indeed were melancholic. "You thwarted my indignation, and now… I can still imagine the fight we were to have, and all those accusations I was to throw to you, and…" She shook her head. "And now I just wonder how you can be so blind..."

Uneasy feeling stirred in his chest.

"Wren, what is it?" His voice wavered, and he picked up her hand. She took it back, and even moved away from him on the bedroll.

"How long do you think we have, Thorin? Have you asked yourself, how much time we are given back here?" Her throat moved, and her face twitched in agitation. "What if our purpose here was to save Lothiriel and to bring her to Rivendell? What if after she reaches it, we shall fall on the ground in piles of ash?"

"Wren, it is preposterous. It is not as if we are those mud statues of the dead they make, we are alive, and..."

"Thorin, are you mad?" she was finally raising her voice, and speaking openly. Thorin took a deep breath to keep his temper under control. Whatever she was to say was better than the cold disdain he had been receiving. "We know nothing of what had transpired. We were brought back, we met Lothiriel. We..."

"We will speak to Elrond, or find the Grey Wizard, for that matter. We will find out..." he started, but she made a scornful huff like noise.

"You just accepted it!" she interrupted him. "You are… as if drunk on this freedom! On being alive again! You gallivant around, you fight wild men, you..."

"Wren..." he tried to reason with her.

"You wagered me!" she hissed at him. Here it was, finally. Thorin braced himself. "He told me, that you made a wager on that sparring of yours. That whichever of the two of you won, would have me for himself."

"It was a jest, Wren," Thorin answered in a forced nonchalant tone. "We both knew it. You know I would never consider treating you as an object. And I bet you, he knew it too. Wild or not, he was not a complete imbecile." Thorin thought that his long ago prepared words sounded quite convincing. She was studying his face. "You were in charge in that village, Wren. You determined what was happening. I just had my fun."

At the last words she narrowed her eyes - and he understood he had chosen them unwisely.

"Fun… That has been all you seem to have been preoccupied with, husband of mine." He was painfully familiar with the low voice and the even tone. It bode calamity. "From the first night we were back, then in the inn, when all you wanted was to celebrate being alive with your wife. Do you remember?" He knew he was heading to his own execution, but not answering would deliver him there faster. He nodded. "And then you sparred with the wild man. And now you are smoking and conversing with the Gondorian. And I would bet any of my possessions - but I have none - that you are in anticipation to enter the Home of Lord Elrond, in all your spry agility, and you just cannot wait to see him face." The last words were jeered through her gritted teeth.

She was right of course. It had been quite a pleasurable habit of his recently - to imagine this moment. He was hoping some other familiar faces would be in Rivendell, Gandalf perhaps; or maybe even Bilbo. He knew better than to confess it at the moment, though.

"Have you considered that we might not be able to see our children? That our quest might end in Rivendell? Or lead us elsewhere?" she asked, and Thorin nodded again. He had, and as usual he knew that he would just take a day at a time, and persevere. He had no habit of fretting and assuming, and he wanted to tell her not to, but kept his mouth shut.

He kept his mouth shut because he knew that she would have never given into her emotions if she had no good reason for it. Her agitated face and her feverish eyes worried him. She had shown admirable composure and the strength of will always, under any circumstances, whatever they had faced. His initial words to her - him accepting her accusations without a doubt - were only partially a jest. If she had something to say, he knew he should listen.

"Wren… I know all of it, what you said. And..."

"I am expecting," she said, and he froze. She suddenly barked a short bitter laugh. "Oh, Mahal help me, I did get a chance to dramatically deliver news. You should have grovelled better at the start. I gather, you have not pacified me enough."

Thorin gawked at her.

"And before you ask, aye, I am sure. I am with child."

He opened his mouth but stayed silent, just taking shallow breaths in.

"And before you feel exuberant, my lord..." she gritted, "think of this. We were never to have a fifth child. I have seen our future. There were four children in it, in all our possible futures, in actuality. As you remember I spoke with Dain, our son, from another world, where you had not fallen in the battle. Four children, always four, Thorin..." Her mouth twisted anxiously. "We were brought back for a reason, Thorin. What if our purpose is fulfilled, before I carry our daughter to term? What if..." Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand over her mouth.

"Wren..." He lifted his hand to touch her shoulder, but she jerked away from him.

"No, no, I do not wish to speak now… I am angry with myself, for speaking so emotionally, and… For speaking at all..."

She jerkily rose onto her feet, dropping her work.

"I will go find Boromir, and relieve him. Wake up the children." She threw him a quick look, but he could not discern the expression on her pale face. "We shall speak later."

* * *

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 _Summary:_ Armed with several degrees in psychology, sociology, and literary studies, as well as a particular set of skills and abilities, Gemma Wright works as a muse for artists in various creative fields. She can inspire a hit album; pull a popular novelist out of a writer's block; or organize an international tour for a dance company.

Gemma has strict rules and a precise plan for her personal life - and Jack Richards, a famous mystery writer, definitely doesn't fit her criteria. Perhaps, his direct competitor, John Barnett, with his soft manners and seemingly humble disposition, is a better match for Gemma than the dark and handsome Richards. Understanding others and leading them to the fulfilling and rewarding life is Gemma's specialty, but does she know the answers to the same questions when it comes to her own life?

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 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

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 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	11. Imladris

**Author's Note:**

 **My duckies!**

 **I am back! After many turbulent changes in my life, I have settled into a new job/career/vocation - and I'm back to writing FF. At the moment it seems that I will have time to regularly update only one story, but I hope it'll be a good one ;) I'm hoping to post a new chapter at least once a week.**

 **Some of my other stories might get updates since I tend to be fussy if I have unfinished stories (which basically means I'm fussy all the times, since there are so many of them :D) If you want to read more of my writing (independent fiction and Potterverse FF) you can find my stories on Wattpad. The name is kkolmakov/Katya Kolmakov. I'm much more industrious and meticulous there, so no hiatus victims there :)**

 **And now, to Middle Earth!**

 **With willing heart,**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

It was in the grey early hours of morning that their company had finally reached Imladris. The cold Autumn light of dawn was chasing the stars away; and gentle breeze rustled in the leaves of the trees and stopped on a ridge, on the elevated path among the slopes overlooking the valley; and Wren saw her young companions gawk at the landscape in front of them.

"I have never seen so much foliage, so lush and lively; or water running so freely, in my whole life," Lothiriel muttered; and Wren threw the girl an affectionate look.

Indeed, compared to the grey and solemn shores of Dol Amroth, the opulence and the grace of Rivendell would be most stunning. Thanks to the skill and the gifts of the Elven architects, the dwelling was both similar to what Men built - and so far and incomparable in beauty and wonder.

Wren, on the other hand, felt longing for the halls and caverns of Erebor. In her years as the wife of King Thorin, Wren had grown to appreciate the dwellings of the Khazad. She had always felt such was her own personal choice, not brought upon her by necessity of her situation, but by her admiration towards the Dwarves' resilience and their stubborn practicality, so aptly reflected in their architecture. Presently, gazing on the filigree arches and bridges of the Elven houses, Wren craved to once again find herself in the safety of her dim halls, with their angular patterns and sturdy columns.

"Wren, could I have a moment?" Wren felt her husband softly touch her shoulder; and she pressed her lips in irritation. After their conversation the previous night, Wren felt regretful to have disclosed her secret of expecting another child, of which she now had no doubt.

She stepped aside, and Thorin stopped in front of her, leaning forward, his face just a few inches away from hers. She felt an urge to move away, she was still irked; but he clearly was just trying to speak discreetly.

"How do you want to act now, my heart?" he asked quietly. His humility and seeming obedience did not deceive her. He was just trying to pacify her.

"I am certain you have already devised a plan in your mind, my lord. Let us just hear it," she grumbled back. Thorin gave her a small smile, as if praising her for her perceptiveness, but she was in no mood for compliments.

"Both the Gondorian and the Princess will want to speak to the Elf," Thorin said. "I say, you have to join Lady Lothiriel in that conversation. It surely was your magic that brought us back."

"And you are intending to just stand back? Are you not rushing to enjoy your moment of fame and to gallivant your youthfulness in front of your old allies?" Wren's tone was venomous. Thorin tilted his head, giving her a soft look. She huffed a breath, and shook her head. "You are right, I am being unreasonably hostile."

"I never said that," he interjected, but she shook her head again.

"We need to put our personal aggravations aside. For now," she added pointedly, and he gave her his usual tilted nod. "I will go with Lothiriel and will speak to Lord Elrond, but may I remind you that you have been brought back to life as well. There must be a purpose to it as well. I say, we both speak to him and hear what he has to say."

He nodded again. "Wren..." She knew this tone - the warm, cajoling baritone, diving low, wrapping around her name. Thorin, son of Thrain was never good at waiting - he clearly wished to solve their disagreement now. She did not think it was that easy to solve.

"We will speak later, Thorin," she said firmly. "Let us return to the world of the living first."

She turned away from him and started marching down the path. Behind her, she heard a rumbly grunt, signalling that her royal husband was not pleased, but then he just followed her in silence.

* * *

They stepped onto the round square, and Wren looked around, drinking the familiar view with her eyes. Last time she had visited the place had been more than three dozens years ago. It had been an early Spring then. She had entered through these very gates, on a pony, in the company of three of her children. They had been returning from her last long journey - to visit relations in Ered Luin and Master Baggins. Fruit trees had been in bloom; and her heart had been joyful and proud.

It was now the twenty fifth day of the second moon of Autumn, or the nineteenth day of the month of Quellë in the Reckoning of Rivendell. Yellow and burgundy coloured the trees of the valley; and Wren's heart was heavy. For the first time in her life she saw in Autumn - her most favourite season - a touch of goodbye, a foreboding of partings, a shadow of what was to come. She looked down at the paved path they were taking and saw a fallen leaf of a rowan tree - bright and red, the colour of blood, of fire.

"Welcome to the Last Homely House," a silver voice rang in the courtyard; and Wren looked up. A male Elf was standing in front of them, dressed in the traditional Rivendell fashion, including a long and swan-necked dark blue doublet. Two guards had stopped behind him, and Wren saw their attentive eyes in the cuts of the helmets. "I am Gilrandir, the Gatekeeper of Imladris. I welcome you to the House of Lord Elrond."

" _Le fael, hir vuin. Guren glassui,_ " Wren thanked and gave the Elf a small bow, old ceremonial habits returning quickly. Thorin joined her, regal but courteous. Aglahad and Lothiriel seemed uncertain how to proceed; while the Gondorian gave the Elf an haughty look over.

"How shall I announce you to my Lord Elrond?" the Elf asked; and his eyes ran their admittedly colourful company.

"Tell your master that Boromir, son of Denethor, the High Warden of the White Tower, Steward-prince of Gondor, is here to seek his audience." The Gondorian's tone was demanding. The Elf gave him a polite nod.

"And what shall I say about your companions?" Gilrandir asked, and then looked at Wren. " _Man esselya ná, hiril vuin?_ " he addressed her, and she opened her mouth to answer - still unsure what names she was to give him - when another figure appeared.

" _Nan Aear a Geil!_ I do not think any introductions will be required here."

Wren knew this voice!

"Greetings, my Lord Legolas!" she said; and her eyes met the bright blue ones of the Mirkwood prince.

Indeed, Wren could never have imagined that such shock could be etched on the cold noble face of the Sinda! She quickly wondered if her husband was presently doing a happy jig in his mind. Surely, the boggled eyes and the slacking jaw of the Elf were exactly the expression Thorin had hoped to see on the faces of all their friends and acquaintances were they to encounter Thorin and Wren these days.

"Well met, Filegethiel Eleirandir," Legolas muttered in astonishment, and Wren softly laughed at the old moniker. She had not been called the 'dreamwanderer' for decades. The moniker had been given to her by King Thranduil, and had been mostly used by the latter when he was in the mood to annoy Wren's husband. It had always seemed to Wren that the history she had shared with the Elvenking had been just another trifle aggravation the two kings had enjoyed to bicker about. "Are my eyes deceiving me?"

"They are not," Thorin answered; and the Mirkwood prince shook off his stupor and looked at the Dwarf. Bows were exchanged; and the Elf shook his head.

"So many pressing matters are to be discussed today, so many exigent measures are to be taken - and yet I feel your… visit will not be outshone," the Elf drew out. He turned to the Gatekeeper and explained that while the visitors were to be shown inside and welcomed, Lord Elrond was to be summoned as quickly as possible.

"You will be provided with shelter and food." Gilrandir gestured, inviting them to follow him. One of the guards quickly disappeared. "But I wonder how soon Lord Elrond will be able to see you. The council is to start in just two hours."

"Council?" Wren asked. They were now walking after the Elf, Thorin near her, in his usual confident manner. The Gondorian followed, his face aloof; while Lothiriel and Aglahad walked exchanging unsure looks. Wren could understand their confusion, as well as the Gondorian's displeasure. Both Boromir and Lothiriel were used to being treated with respect and to being in the centre of everyone's attention. At the moment they were pushed at the background and as if taken for Wren and Thorin's coterie.

"Yes, my lady," Gilrandir answered. "Lord Elrond is currently accepting many distinguished guests from all over Arda; and a council is to be held this morning. Some of your compatriots are among them," the Elf addressed Thorin with a respectful nod. "Am I to understand my lord is a Dwarf from the Kingdom of Erebor? I seem to notice a familiar semblance with some of our guests."

"Which guests?" Wren asked, interrupting greedily, her heart suddenly thrashing in her throat.

"Your son Dain is here," Legolas answered from behind Wren, and she whipped her head. She saw how intently the Elf was peering into her face. "And your daughter. They are accompanied by several warriors from the Lonely Mountain."

"Dain and Unna..." Wren breathed out, and looked at her husband. Their eyes met, and she saw the excitement, agitation, hope, and shock all mixed in his cerulean irises - and she knew the same emotions splashed in her eyes. Their children were there! They would see them!

"M'imnu Durin..." he mouthed. _In Durin's name._ "Ushaktul, our children are here!"

Wren felt her lips tremble, and she stretched her hand to him. His fingers grasped hers, and he squeezed them tightly.

"Where are they?!" Wren asked the Mirkwood prince. "I need to see them immediately!"

That was the moment when the Steward of Gondor seemed to have lost his patience. "Surely, it is no time to play with infants!" he barked, and sped up, catching up with the head of their bizarre small procession. "I need to see the master of this House!" he demanded of the Gatekeeper. "Council or not, my mission here..."

He did not get a chance to finish his irritated shout, since a booming voice rolled through the halls in front of them.

"Where are they?! Is it true?!" Loud steps drummed in the passage ahead of them; and around the corner there appeared a tall figure, disheveled and as if flapping large grey wings.

"Tharkun!" Thorin exclaimed.

"Gandalf!" Wren cried out, and the two of them rushed ahead, without releasing each other's hands.

"Is it true about our children?" Wren shouted; "How are you here?" Thorin asked at the same time.

"Thorin!" The Wizard froze a few steps away from them; and they stopped in their tracks as well. The Princess and her squire had to dig their heels into the ground as well, being in danger of trampling over Wren and Thorin; while Gilrandir just lingered by the wall, without participating in this ridiculous game of grandmother's steps, which Wren children used to be so fond of.

"Valar be merciful, Thorin and Lady Wren! Can this be true?" The Wizard flailed his hands, in his usual manner; and Wren could not hold back a smile. In the madness and confusion of the latest events a familiar face was a welcomed and heartwarming sight.

"Can it?" Legolas suddenly asked. "Are these people truly the King Under the Mountain and his Queen?"

Wren felt a heavy look at the side of her face, and she knew it was the Gondorian's gaze. Aglahad gasped in shock behind her.

The Wizard stepped forward, and his hands lay on Wren and Thorin's shoulders. She met the studying look of his sharp grey eyes directly; and he scrutinized their faces for a few moments.

"Well, stranger things have happened," the old man muttered, and Thorin laughed suddenly.

"Indeed. Shall we just agree that it is once again one of Lady Wren's tricks and accept that the two of us are back?" he asked; and the Wizard's face lit up with an impish grin.

"Is it? One of Lady Wren's tricks?" He shifted his eyes at her, and on some childish impulse she shrugged.

"We know as little as you, or perhaps even less, Mithrandir," she said. "And now tell me where my children are."

"Oh I have quite forgotten! The council! They are preparing for the council no doubt." The Wizard's eyes lingered on them for a few more seconds, and then he released Wren, and patted Thorin's shoulder. "It is good to see you, old friend."

The Dwarf returned the smile. "And I am joyous to see you, khuzdbâha."

Once again it was the Gondorian who brought everyone's mind onto the question of the present. "Will these empty niceties end already?" he growled.

"I cannot argue with our friend here," Thorin said, and Wren nodded. "We all have things to explain and to hear explained."

"Then perhaps a small council before the main council is due," Gandalf muttered; and followed by all of them he headed along the passage.


	12. First Conversation

**Author's Note:**

 **I dedicate this chapter to Just4Me, one of my oldest and most loyal readers. When I think of Wren and Thorin in Middle Earth, I always think of you, my dear reader. I feel like they are your friends just as much as they are mine. And when I am seeking inspiration for one of the 'original' stories (not modern ones with John/Jack and Wren/Gemma/Etta/Olivia), I remember all those stories we shared, me as a writer, and you as a reader. I hope this one will become a new favourite - or at least doesn't disappoint!**

 **K.**

* * *

Lothiriel followed Lady Wren and her husband along a passage. The woman was quietly conversing with the tall man in grey clobber. When he had appeared around a corner, he had been greeted by Lothiriel's companions as an old friend, and she quickly understood that he was none other but Gandalf the Grey, the Wizard she had heard most preposterous rumours about.

She had known who the Dwarf and his wife were, of course; and she was not surprised by the respectful treatment they were receiving; and to see the flabbergasted expression on the face of the Elf who had greeted them before the Wizard was most entertaining. Through their travels Lord Thorin had shared with her his memories of the Quest to reclaim his homeland; and she remembered now what he had told her about the Mirkwood Prince. She had encountered very few Elves in her life; and the beauty of Prince Legolas had taken her breath away - and yet she had to bite into her bottom lip to hide a smile.

"My Lord Boromir, allow me to show you to a room where you can find food and rest," the Gatekeeper addressed Lothiriel's cousin; and the Gondorian curled his lip.

"I need to see Lord Elrond. It is urgent." There was menace in his low voice.

"He has been sent for," the Elf answered unruffled. Boromir was clearly intending to argue, but a door was opened before him; and with a grumble he marched inside. One of the guards, joined by another Elf carrying a tray, followed him.

"Follow me, my lords and ladies," the Gatekeeper said; and the rest of the company walked after him.

"Could a person be sent to my children?" Lady Wren asked, and the Gatekeeper nodded courteously.

They were shown in a large room, and their hosts disappeared. There was food and drinks on a round table in its centre, and the Wizard took a tall chair in its head. He sat down with a quiet groan, but for some reason Lothiriel wondered whether this persona of an old decrepit man was just a mask. He did look thinned and tired, though.

Lord Thorin remained standing, which Lothiriel already knew was his habit. It had perhaps something to do with the fact that if he sat on a chair in a dwelling of Men, or more so, Elves, his feet would not reach the floor.

Lady Wren seemed undisturbed by such concerns. She was of the same height as her husband, but she gleefully climbed on the nearest chair and snatched a slice of bread and cheese from a platter. An Elf servant who had been waiting in the room poured her some beverage; and she thanked him in Sindarin. He then bowed and left as well.

"Please, sit, Lothiriel," the woman addressed the Princess, her cheek sticking out full of food. "Our stories have to be told together, and you can trust Master Gandalf. He will listen with an open mind, and his advice is worth hearing. And as my personal experience has taught me, a counsel of a Wizard would be much more practical than that of an Elven lord."

Lothiriel heard Lord Thorin chuckle at the background. Lothiriel threw an uncertain look at the woman, and then, since she had no one else to turn to, towards Aglahad. He was standing by the wall, obviously not sure what was happening and how he was to behave. Lothiriel felt quite the same.

After a moment of hesitation, she gathered her bearings and sat down at the table, keeping her head high, just as she had been taught to. Aglahad made a few steps, and stopped behind her chair. Lothiriel felt more assurance and calm surge from his closeness. He was a reminder of her stature and her duty - a squire standing behind the chair of a Princess.

While Lady Wren hastily ate, and her husband silently sipped his wine, Lothiriel relayed her story to the Wizard - of the dream she had had, of 'Isildur's bane' and 'a Halfling;' of meeting her companions on the road; and her travels here. Lady Wren at some point clarified to the Wizard their side of the story, mentioning simply that the two of them had found themselves on the shore of Dol Amroth just a few minutes before Lothiriel had been attacked.

Just as Lady Wren said, the Wizard listened calmly, smoking his pipe. Lord Legolas stood by the window, his back turned to the room, and it was not clear whether he was even listening.

After she was done Lothiriel picked up a goblet from the table and emptied it into her scratchy throat.

"Is there anything you have to add to this account, Thorin? Lady Wren?" the Wizard asked, and the red haired woman shook her head.

"We know nothing more. I have only one thought..." She trailed away pensively, and twisted another slice of bread in her hand. "If last time we had assumed that my magic had come from the blood of the visitors from over the seas who had landed on the shores of Enedwaith, there could be some connection between myself and Lady Lothiriel, since our native lands lie so close to each other." The woman threw a soft look at Lothiriel. "It seems I have been destined to accompany her here, to Rivendell. The question is what will happen to me… us." She threw a look at her husband. "Now that our quest is over."

"Oh but is it, my dear lady?" the Wizard asked slowly, exhaling a ring of smoke. "You have helped Lady Lothiriel to arrive here, carrying an important message, but you do not know its significance."

A pause hung in the air, and then Lothiriel heard Lord Thorin make a disgruntled noise in his throat.

"And do you, Tharkun?" the Dwarf asked.

"I'm afraid I might have an inkling of it." The Wizard shook his head, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

"And there is also the question of why Lady Filegethiel has not returned alone," the Mirkwood Elf suddenly noted from his spot by the window, and Lord Thorin scoffed.

"He is right to question it, Thorin," Lady Wren said in a pacifying tone. "If my purpose was to aid Lady Lothiriel in a quest, pardon me, my love, but I surely could have managed it alone." Despite the amicable jest laced in her voice, the woman did not seem to be joking. Lothiriel had previously wondered where Lady Wren's insubordination stemmed from - her magical gift, or perhaps such were marital relationship in a Dwarven union - but the lack of reverence in the redhead towards her husband had amazed Lothiriel constantly.

"The dream that you have had, my lady." The Wizard focused his sharp grey eyes on the Princess. "It is of great importance. Lord Elrond would surely want to hear all about it. But…" The bushy grey eyebrows furrowed as if in distress. "But he is not the only one. It is most significant that it is today, of all days, you and your companions have arrived to Rivendell. There is a council to be held today, at which many destinies are to be determined, and a matter of great gravity is to be discussed. You should join it." He then glanced at the redhead and the Dwarf. "And the two of you as well."

"You are afraid," Lady Wren said quietly, her cat eyes widened anxiously, peering intently into the Wizard's face.

"I am, my lady. And rightfully so. We all should be."

Uneasy silence filled the room, and then some noise came from behind the door. It opened, and Lothiriel turned, catching an anxious impatient expression on Lady Wren's face. A tall regal Elf who entered was most definitely not one of Lady Wren's children, which was what the redhead had surely hoped to see. Everyone in the room looked at the newcomer. He radiated confidence and had some sort of balancing presence, but Lothiriel pressed her lips tightly. She was exhausted, not fully recovered from her ailment, and it seemed more negotiations were upon her.

The Elf froze by the entrance and his eyes roamed the room, jumping from face to face.

"I bet you thought you have misheard." The Wizard was the first to break the tense silence. "And yet it is true."

Lothiriel quickly looked over her shoulder at the faces of her travel companions. Lady Wren looked almost apologetic, a small awkward smile danced on her lips. And there was only one word to describe the expression on the face of Lord Thorin - smug.

He stepped forward and gave the Elf a small bow, almost a nod of a tilted head. He then pronounced something, perhaps a greeting. It sounded surprisingly melodic coming from a Dwarf - but he did after all had a beautiful singing voice, a warm velvet baritone. He had sung for them by the campfire during their journey. Lady Wren would pretend to whine and beg, he would pretend to agree begrudgingly. Even after all this time, Lothiriel had not quite gotten used to their manner with each other; she just could not accept that such could be a royal marriage and not a dalliance between two village sweethearts.

"Your Sindarin has vastly improved last we spoke, Thorin, son of Thrain," the Elf pronounced. He had a mesmerizing, strangely articulate voice.

"I had had a wonderful teacher," the Dwarf answered, and glanced at his wife from the corner of the eye. Impish gleam danced in the blue irises. "Or perhaps, it is that last time we spoke I was old and senile."

"Which could hardly be said of you now, as I can see," the Elf answered, and Lord Thorin smirked lopsidedly.

"I think the explanations to Lord Elrond should be now given by the Princess and Master Gandalf," Lady Wren said firmly, and brushed crumbs off her hands. "It is time we see our children."

Lord Elrond - and of course, it was him still standing calmly by the door - looked at the woman.

"They are in the visitors' halls, my lady. Do you wish to be escorted there right away?"

The answer to him came in the form of Lord Thorin stretching his hand to his wife and her placing her fingers gracefully onto his palm. She rose; and Lord Elrond gave her a small bow.

"Will the explanation I will receive from Mithrandir be of the satisfying kind?" the Elf suddenly asked the couple, and they exchanged looks, as if having a short silent conversation.

"It will be as informative as it can be," Lady Wren answered, and her husband once again smirked darkly.

"I doubt it will satisfy you, though," he added; and led his wife to the door. There was a courtier waiting there; and Lord Elrond gave a short order in Sindarin.

The door closed behind them; and Lord Elrond turned to Lothiriel. He studied her and Aglahad; and then his eyes met those of the Grey Wizard. There was a pause, perhaps also filled with a mute conversation between the two of them; and then Lord Elrond turned to Lothiriel.

"I have just heard quite an astonishing account from Boromir, son of Denethor," Lord Elrond started. "Will I hear something equally ominous from you, my lady?"

One of the slanted eyebrows of the Elven lord rose; and Lothiriel sighed. It seemed she had been right - there were more exhausting conversations ahead of her.

 _ **To be continued...**_

* * *

 **If you're enjoying my writing, I suggest you check out my Wattpad page. I'm writing three stories there and they are updated regularly. The protagonists there might seem familiar ;)**

 _ **~ Jack in the Box**_

 **modern psychological drama, dealing with creativity, trauma, addiction, and romance. Updated every Thursday!**

 **~ _Official Town Business_**

 **romance, humour, and cozy mystery; British countryside, gruesome murder, lush Mayor Oakby and his perky secretary. Updated every Monday!**

 **~ _Second Time Around_ **

**Potterverse fanfiction; sequel to the story _Thorin Durinson and the Conundrum of the Ginger Transfer Student_ posted here. Updated weekly!**

 **Hope you have a look and find something you enjoy there!**

 **Cheers!**

 **K.**


	13. Id-Naddan

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in the updates. I've been settling into my new - comfortable and jolly - work in a daycare, and all I had time for was the updates for my modern independent fiction on Wattpad. But here I am! With FF, and drawings, and overall rainbows and unicorns :D**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

 **Cheers! xx**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

 **P.S. Have a look at my DevianArt for two new silly doodles :D The name is kkolmakov as always.**

* * *

"We need to open this door," Thorin said slowly; but Wren continued staring at the filigree wood.

"If you feel so eager to enter this room, you do it," she grumbled at her husband - and noted that he did not move.

"Allow me," the courtier said, and their loud unified 'No!' stopped him. The Elf looked between them in astoundment.

"Thank you, but no," Wren corrected their rudeness; and the Elda nodded, and after another couple moments of silence he understood he apparently was not needed and disappeared.

"Well, that is just absurd," Thorin grumbled, pressed his hand into the door and pushed it. Wren exhaled in relief. She would not be able to do it.

He walked in, and she followed.

The room was lit with the bright sunlight streaming in, and the lace of shadows from the leaves outside the window danced on the floor. Wren's eyes frantically roamed it; and then a side door opened and Unna stepped into the parlour.

"What is it, namad?" A male voice came from the other room; but Unna did not answer.

She had changed little in the last dozen years; perhaps the features had grown sharper and more defined - but Wren's memory could be failing her. A mother never sees her children clearly.

" _Batith_..." Thorin exhaled Unna's childhood nickname; and the girl gasped and covered her mouth with her right hand.

"What is it?" the man behind Unna now sounded irritated; and there was a noise; and the door opened again.

"Mahal be merciful," Dain exhaled, now petrified near his sister. "Amad..."

"What are you saying..." Unna seemingly addressed her brother, still intently watching Wren and the King; and Wren bit into her bottom lip.

"Amad!" Dain exclaimed, his voice suddenly ringing, and a wide smile stretching his lips.

He leaped ahead, as much as pushing his sister off his way; and Wren rushed ahead. They embraced, and a sob burst out of her.

"Dain, Dain, my boy..." Her body quaked; and pressing him into her with one arm, she opened the second one, stretching the hand to Unna. "Unna!"

The eyes of the maiden - widened and shocked - shifted from the embracing pair to Thorin.

"What…"

"It is us, my kitten," Thorin answered, his voice low and wavering. "We have returned."

Unna then looked at Wren, and tears filled her eyes.

"Amad!" She stepped ahead and pressed into her mother and her brother. "Mahal help me..."

Wren felt tears run down her cheek, hot and overjoyed; and she drew a shuddered breath.

"Thorin," she called; and he joined them.

"You are so young..." Unna muttered; and Wren laughed through her tears. She felt her husband's body press to her shoulder; and his arms went around all three of them.

He pulled Dain's head to him, and Wren saw him kiss the copper coloured crown of hair.

"My child," he whispered; and Wren heard a low sob from Dain.

"I thought it was just a dream… You two, on a shore, and the corsairs, and the maiden..." Dain whispered; and it was Thorin's turn to give out a disbelieving laugh.

"More dreams?" he asked sardonically. His voice lacked a sting; it rolled and shook in his throat, emotional, relieved.

"Oh, amad… It is you," Unna muttered; and Wren nodded, although she doubted either of her family could see her.

"My children," she whispered.

The four of them were silent for a few moments; and then the King cleared his throat, and Wren felt his grasp on them loosen. He stepped away; and Unna followed his example. Out of all four of Wren's children, in her temper Unna was most reminiscent of her father.

"I need some wine," the Princess muttered; and Thorin laughed.

"I could use some as well, my treasure," he said; and the girl froze and looked him over.

"Da… I… I can't… believe it..." Her lips twisted; and Wren expected Unna to step to her father again, but the Princess shook her head wilfully, and went to the table with drinks.

Dain still stood, his arm wrapped around Wren's shoulder; and she habitually rubbed him between his shoulder blades. He had been fond of the caress since he was a tot. Wren felt his gaze on the side of her face. She turned and smiled to him.

"I had seen your portraits, amad," he spoke slowly. "The shorter hair, not silver in it. But to see it with my own eyes! And you, adad..." He turned to the King, who was accepting a goblet out of Unna's hands. "It is an honour." The Prince stepped away from Wren and suddenly lowered his head in a reverent bow, first to Thorin, and then to her.

"My boy, the honour and the joy is mine." Thorin's voice quaked. "To see you grown, to see you again..."

The King placed his hand at the back of his son's neck, and pressed his forehead to Dain's.

"If the two of you do not stop the mawkishness, I will start bawling," Wren muttered, her voice raspy; and Unna gave out a no less afflicted, shaky laugh.

She came up to Wren and pushed a goblet of water into her hands.

"Give them a moment, amad. They are men after all. Maudlin and teary they are," Unna whispered loudly, for everyone to hear. The women laughed together; and Wren quickly leaned in and kissed Unna's cheek.

"I am so glad it is you who is here, Unna. We will need your sober judgement and your acumen."

"I presume so," the Princess agreed haughtily. "But why do we? What happened?"

"Always straight to the core of the matter, namad," Dain said, and went to pour himself a drink. "I assume it is amad's magic that had brought them back again."

"We do not know that," Wren answered. "To be honest, we know nothing. We have returned, in our young bodies..."

"Speak for yourself," the King grumbled jokingly at the background, and Wren threw him a warning glare.

"... and the first person we met on our path was a Gondorian Princess travelling to Rivendell, so we assumed that was where our path was to lie. We did not know you were here - but I am so jubilant you are!" She looked between her children. "Were those your dreams, Dain, that had brought you here? Did you expect to see us, or had a premonition of sorts?"

"Sadly, nay, amad." Dain shook his head.

"We are here on a diplomatic mission from Erebor, amad," Unna said and heavily sat down in a dainty armchair. "We have brought dark news to Rivendell. And Thror sent us to seek advice of Lord Elrond on some other matters as well." She threw Thorin an anxious look. "There has been still no news from Balin."

"Even since my… departure?" Thorin exclaimed; and both their children shook their heads mournfully.

"We have sent men there, just as you had bequeathed. None have returned." Dain's tone was grave; and Wren bit into her bottom lip.

The matter of Khazad-Dum had been the topic of many discussions - and arguments - between herself and her husband. She had known his opinion on the matter of course. He never wanted Balin to leave for Moria, being fond of the old Dwarf, and considering how many of his kin he had lost to the fruitless pursuit of the mines. Wren, as much as it pained her to even think of Balin leaving, had supported the latter's quest. She had always believed everyone had the right to seek their own fortune. She had been forlorn to see him leave, and Ori, and Oin - having grown fond of them during her own quest and in the later years - but she had given them her blessing. The official approval of the Queen had been required - and she had given it, having spent a night crying in her chambers afterwards. Her heart had been heavy then - and it turned out now, not without a reason.

Thorin emptied his goblet into his throat, and sharply walked up to the table to fill it again. Everyone was silent; and Wren sighed.

"What other matters are you here to discuss with Lord Elrond?" she finally asked; and Dain threw Unna a strange look. The Princess pressed her lips, in a gesture identical to her father's.

"Dark tidings have been seen in Erebor, amad. Strange visitors." Unna frowned. "From Mordor. Asking for any knowledge we possessed of a certain Hobbit. And of a certain magical artefact."

"The Arkenstone?" Wren asked, her former quest on her mind.

"Nay, not the Arkenstone. A magical ring, the one that Master Baggins had had," Unna answered. "You remember adad's stories, of course. Of the Quest for Erebor."

Unna then told her parents of the messenger from the Dark Tower seeking Erebor's help on locating a 'minor ring,' allegedly of no importance. Lord Sauron had offered his friendship to the Dwarves, the messenger claimed; and only asked helping finding the 'thief' and the 'trifle ring' he had been said he had stolen. Unna's voice was full of indignation when she replayed the events to Wren and Thorin - and understandably so. Master Baggins was the friend of the family; always an honourable guest, and a host for all of Wren's children. Wren clenched her fists on her lap.

"And what did Thror answer?" Thorin asked, his face dark and tense now.

"Nothing," Dain answered. "He is stalling, and masterfully, I have to say. You know him, he is as sly as a fox."

"I blame your mother," Thorin jested, momentarily shaking off his worriment. "A Khuzd is supposed to roar and act without thinking. His diplomacy and cunning are his inheritance from an ingenious woman of Men."

"I am upset with your Father. Don't mind his groveling," Wren grumbled; and Dain laughed. Unna's face remained unreadable. Being a true Dwarven female, she abhorred mawkishness - or at least pretended to.

"So, where is the Hobbit and the ring now?" Wren asked pensively, addressing no one in particular.

"The Halfling is here. And we could ask him of the ring, I reckon," Dain answered; and Wren whipped her head and stared at him.

"Bilbo is here?" Thorin exclaimed at the background.

"Aye." Dain nodded. "When we arrived, I had a feeling we are not the only guests with important news here. The forests and the River seemed perturbed." The boy's eyes gained their usual dreamy expression. He then blinked and focused on the conversation again. "So, I asked around. They told me the Halfling had been residing here for quite a while. And there are few other… fascinating visitors here, as well."

Wren threw her son a questioning look, and saw a small cheeky grin. She tilted her head, waiting him to continue.

"Lord Legolas is here, with a message from his father," Dain started.

"We have seen the Elf already," Thorin interrupted dismissively.

"And Lord Aragorn," Dain drew out nonchalantly.

"Estel is here?!" Wren cried up in sincere joy. Her heart instantly flooded with warmth.

And then she saw her husband's jaw set. With irritation she noted to herself that her husband's unfounded jealousy towards the Dunedain had not ebbed despite the years that had passed - and their demise, for that matter, it seemed.

"Lord Gloin and his son, Gimli have arrived with us as well," Unna added. "Othin stayed in Erebor. He is expecting a fight of course. You can imagine what _he_ suggested we answered to the messenger from Mordor," Unna said sarcastically.

Neither Wren, nor her husband could hold back a small laugh. Their youngest son had always been fond of ruckus and rumble - above any other resolution of a conflict. Othin, the babe of the family, was only a year younger than his brother Dain, and still under age in the eyes of the Khazad. Although, as Wren always thought, Dain was never a child, it seemed.

She caught his gaze, and they exchanged silent frowns. Each piece of news seemed worrisome - all together they added up to the sense of a calamity approaching.

"So, what of the Gondorian Princess you have encountered? Is she here?" Unna asked, finishing another goblet, and fidgeting with the glass now.

"She is," Dain suddenly answered instead of his parents. "She is a beauty. Such a strong pure soul, like a cool stream washing over the grey stones of the shore."

Wren glanced at her second son. Once again, his eyes had gained the distant look. Her heart clenched. Somehow Dain taking to Lothiriel felt like a harbinger of a future trouble.

"Do you think bringing her here was indeed your purpose back here?" Unna - sober as ever - asked, ignoring her brother.

"Your mother once expressed a concern that we would turn to ashes once we arrived at Rivendell. Mahal has been merciful, we have not," the King drew out, and Wren felt his cautious look on herself.

The conversation they had had before entering Imladris - of his previous reckless behaviour; of their unknown quest; and of course of their unborn babe - had returned to her mind. She pressed her palms to her stomach - and saw Thorin flinch. The gesture had not escaped him, she assumed. She pushed the thought aside; they had other, more pressing matters to ponder.

"A dream has brought Princess Lothiriel here," Wren pronounced. "A dream that spoke of an approaching doom, and of a Halfling. It connected us. And brought us together with you." She looked at both her children. "And you are speaking of the darkness reaching out to Erebor as well, seeking a Halfling." She shook her head. "None of this bodes well."

"Well, we should be grateful we are in the House of Lord Elrond then. And in the presence of one of the Istari," Dain said and shrugged. "Perhaps more will be explained during the Council later today."

Wren sighed. She was feeling suddenly taxed and nauseous. She clenched her fingers, intertwined on her stomach, tighter, and closed her eyes for an instant.

"If we are to take part in a council of the Wise," she said in a tired voice, "And they always take an eternity and then a few hours more… I need a bath and a substantial meal first."

* * *

Batith = (Khuzdul) kitten

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	14. Rivendell

Lothiriel took a hurried bath, her nerves so taxed, so overwhelmed by her conversation with Lord Elrond, that she was quite unable to enjoy the opulence of the Elven dwelling. The water was warm and fragrant with some essences; and many luxuries were provided to her; but she felt bedraggled and no less apprehensive stepping out of the bath chambers. A set of clothes had been prepared for her, and placed on a large wide bed - a garment of silvery green, which fit her perfectly. The bed, meanwhile, looked so inviting that the Princess sighed wistfully.

She got dressed, and started on the breakfast she'd found on a table by the window. That would be her second breakfast, to think of it. She'd pinched a bit of bread and cheese while Lady Wren and Lord Thorin had been conversing with the Grey Wizard.

Once she was sated, she rose and stepped out onto the balcony. She was worried she would fall asleep if she remained in the comfort of her chamber, even on a chair.

The air was fresh and aromatic; and she looked around. Water ran freely through the Elven abode; and Lothiriel's heart clenched at the memories of her home. She felt a yearning for the stern and grey waters around her city; for the rocks and the white foam of waves - and then a thought of her Father came. She had not left a note explaining her departure, worried he would try to send men to stop her. She had considered sending a letter to him from the road, but it never came to it.

Remorse filled her heart. As harsh and austere as he could be with her sometimes, she knew he loved her dearly. To think of it, until she met her present companions, she had never questioned the lack of warmth in the relations between the people around her. Men were to be warriors, cold and astringent. Women were to submit, and care for children. She had considered her own life - richer in experiences, full of diplomatic travels - to be the fortune of a princess. She also knew she would have to give it up when time to wed came for her.

Lord Thorin was nothing like her Father; although he had seemed so at the beginning to her. He was obviously an experienced warrior, the leader of his people, authoritative, and sometimes rigid. With time, though, Lothiriel saw quite a different side of him. He was a strangely affectionate husband for Lady Wren; his behaviour more logical in a suitor - and an exceptionally young one. He was warm and jolly with Aglahad. To put it simply, before meeting him Lothiriel had not known that sentiment and affection, sincere, and shown openly, could be anything but a sign of weakness. And yet, Boromir treated the Dwarf with utmost respect, and sometimes even admiration. Aglahad was as much as following him around, throwing him adoring looks.

Lady Wren was of course like no other woman Lothiriel had ever met; but the Princess knew that women were sometimes born temperamental. It would be their upbringing and their marriage that were to teach them to curb the said temperament. No such thing seemed to have happened to Lady Wren's firm judgement, sharp tongue, and lively disposition. More so, it seemed, these qualities were very much to her husband's liking.

Lothiriel shortly wondered what the children of the couple were like. She asked herself whether all Dwarven children were brought up loved and cherished so openly and outwardly as Lady Wren and Lord Thorin seemed to.

"My lady, it is time of the council," a melodic voice called to her; and she turned. A young Elf stood on the stairs leading to her balcony, his face polite and considerate.

Lothiriel suppressed the desire to run back into the room and hide. As many diplomatic missions as she had conducted, she felt utterly out of place in her current circumstances. Her own position, what was to be said, and what was to come - nothing was known to her.

* * *

She walked a long passage following the Elf.

"Lothiriel, my child, wait!" Lady Wren's voice rang from behind; and Lothiriel felt a wave of relief.

A familiar face was most welcome at the moment.

She turned and saw Lady Wren accompanied by two Dwarves, one male, another female. Lothiriel found herself lost for words. Just a few minutes ago she had been wondering what the children of her travel companions would be like - and now, seeing them in front of her, she could not quite wrap her mind around them.

The woman looked Dwarven, and bore the astonishing likeness to her father. She had the same distinct features, dark wavy hair in an elaborate do, and an haughty bearing. Her eyes were dark brown, but the expression - slightly arrogant, keen, and attentive - was the same. She was clad in a heavy, dark burgundy dress, embroidered with gold and red gems. In her ears, around her wrists and her fingers gold glimmered, in heavy and imposing jewellery.

The man was taller, perhaps even taller than his Father. He had a long narrow nose, and most mesmerizing slanted eyes just like his Mother's, green and hazel mixed in the irises. His build and the features were more delicate than those of the Dwarves Lothiriel had seen but still he was wider and shorter than Men. He was also the most enthralling man she had ever seen! Something about his high-cheekboned face - perhaps the mixture of some otherworldly wisdom and wonder; or the smile playing on the curved lips, the line the same as his Father's - or maybe the fluid gracefulness of every movement would not let Lothiriel tear her eyes off him.

"My children, this is Princess Lothiriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth," Lady Wren introduced; and the man bowed, while the woman nodded. "And these are Princess Unna, daughter of Thorin, son of Thrain; and my son, Prince Dain."

Prince Dain bowed again, while the Dwarven Princess turned to her mother.

"I shall go ahead. Perhaps, our kin need to be prepared for the meeting, namad." A slightly sardonic smile hid in her voice. "Lord Gloin is hardly a young man now. Perhaps, the shock of seeing his King and Queen, back from the dead and embarrassingly youthful, would prove too much."

Lady Wren laughed softly, and gently smacked her daughter's shoulder.

"You are as mouthy as your brothers. Go, run, my kitten."

The words were pronounced quietly, probably to save the princess' dignity; but Lothiriel had caught them. She cowardly looked aside, pretending to be unaware.

"I have a few words to exchange with Princess Lothiriel before we are summoned to the council," Lady Wren added, and wrapped her arm around Lothiriel's.

Prince Dain lingered; and the three of them stepped in a nook. The Elf accompanying Lothiriel stayed behind, giving them privacy.

Lothiriel looked down at the red-haired woman. She was now dressed in an Elven dress as well. Her hair were put away in a simple yet elegant do, in a few thick braids. She looked fresh, rosy-cheeked, and as she just said 'embarrassingly youthless.' If Lothiriel did not know of the woman's true age and stature, she could easily mistake Lady Wren for a simple town girl for some reason dressed in a silver silk dress.

"Lothiriel," the redhead started softly. "My children have come to Imladris, bringing alarming news from our kin in the Misty tidings in our home, in the Kingdom of Erebor, seem to bode darkly as well."

She then looked at her son, who was now frowning, his eyes lowered.

"It is hard to predict what will be discussed at the council of Lord Elrond, and what the conclusions of it are going to be," Lady Wren continued in a tense tone. "I cannot judge… but I feel you need to be assured of one thing. Whatever your future path is, I am willing to share it with you."

Lothiriel looked at the smaller woman in shock.

"Now that the ill news from Moria and from Erebor reached us, my husband feels that our return to the world of the living had had something to do with the latest events in those two places..." The woman shook her head. "I cannot explain it but I just cannot bring myself to agree with him. We have returned on the shores of Dol Amroth. We have saved your life. I feel certain we are connected to it, bound to your fate. I do not wish to part with you until it is clear what this fate is and what role we are to play in it."

Lothiriel felt a surge of gratitude towards the woman who was willing to antagonize her husband and disregard the mysterious calamities that had befallen her people for Lothiriel's sake - but still, she did not share the woman's assurance.

"Perhaps, saving me was your purpose," she offered in a small voice.

Lady Wren shook her head again.

"I am sure there is more to it. Do not ask me to explain it. I have no answers," Lady Wren said.

"Perhaps, we should just wait for what we hear at the council, amad," her son said softly. "We seem to have only one sort of pieces for this mosaic. Like those blue ones Othin always picked out of the box we played with as children. Without the reds and the greens, the picture was incomplete." He laughed. "He just could never grasp the idea that he could not make a landscape with only the Durin's blue."

Lothiriel threw him a flabbergasted look. The story was, to her taste, childish and sounded odd coming from a Dwarven warrior. Lady Wren's smiled, though; but then her face dropped again.

"I wonder if I will see him again..." she whispered.

"Mahal is merciful, Mother," the man said, and leaned in, pressing his lips to her cheek. "You will introduce our new sibling to Othin, I am sure of it."

Lothiriel looked between them, not understanding, and saw Lady Wren blanche and her lips part.

"How did you know?" the redhead gasped.

"So my guess was correct then." Prince Dain laughed. "I do share your gift, Mother; though only its inward part. None of the golden glow… but I do see just a tad more than an average Dwarf." He threw a mischievous side glance at Lothiriel. "Or Man and Elf for that matter."

A conjecture sprang in Lothiriel's mind - and she peered at Lady Wren's stomach. Nothing of course could be seen yet. The silk lay flat on the woman's thin frame.

"Are you with child?!" she asked, knowing the answer, but unable to refrain from the exclamation. "How are you… to aid me, in this quest or otherwise then? You need to stay safe, to go home!"

Lady Wren's face grew cold and, as it seemed to Lothiriel, defensive; but Prince Dain laughed again.

"There is much you do not know about my Mother, my lady. Among other things, she becomes an even more formidable opponent when expecting. It seems that the blood of Thorin Oakenshield mixed into hers amplifies her powers tenfold."

"What does Lord Thorin think of it?" Lothiriel asked the redhead demandingly, ignoring the man's words.

"Lord Thorin does not get to..." Lady Wren started in a prickly voice, but then shook her head. "It matters not at the moment. Dain is right. We should see what the council brings first."

Lady Wren stepped out of the alcove and started walking away.

"Shall we, my lady?" Prince Dain said, and made a wide inviting gesture.

Lothiriel took a shuddered breath and followed the red-haired woman. While they walked the passage, a single clear bell rang through Rivendell, inviting its guests to the council of Elrond.


	15. Many Meetings

**Author's Note:**

 **I know it might seem that I've completely given up on writing fanfiction, but in reality the situation is quite the opposite. I have just reread** _The Hobbit_ **and I'm almost done with rereading LotR (I read it to my kid before bed time, and we're one chapter away from finishing "The Two Towers"), I've rewatched all six films, and have read six books about Tolkien in the last two months. I've just put up seven prints I bought on Etsy, all Tolkien related, on my walls! LOL It's just that the new vocation and the certification for it that I'm working on (Who's a workaholic and always tries to get yet another degree? Definitely not me! Haha!) leave very little room for my writing and drawing; and I have to be very frugal in my time management. I do try to update my Wattpad regularly, so have a look there if you feel like it; and I've recently started learning watercolours; so my poor FF babies are always left behind. But I have the next chapter half written, so maybe I'll manage to go back to a more regular update schedule (that is if anyone still reads this story haha, which we'll find out from reviews I reckon :D) Anyroad, here's my long sob story, and... now to Middle Earth!**

 **Cheers! xx**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

Wren had had time to prepare her emotions for the council while she had been soaking in a bath she had requested. She had of course noticed Thorin's looks, but she ignored her husband and left for the bathing chamber. She had been married to the man for so long, she knew exactly what he thought. He was hoping to once again sway her to his will. Now that they had reunited with their children, he surely saw it as an opportunity to send her to Erebor, to protect her and their unborn child. As a Khuzd, he was certain that the walls of his mountain would be the best shelter. She also knew that he was intending to go to Moria. That was what he was most likely currently discussing with Lord Gloin.

"Have you seen Lord Legolas already, amad?" Dain asked, shaking her out of her thoughts.

"Aye, my dear," she answered absentmindedly.

"And the Man?" Dain's voice grew cheeky, and Wren puffed an exasperated breath out.

"I know that Estel is here, but I have not seen him yet."

"Who is Estel?" Lothiriel asked.

Wren looked and noticed the nervous shivers run through the girl's body.

"He is… many things," Wren answered slowly. "To your people he might be known as Thorongil, a renowned warrior and a hero of the Umbar wars."

"Thorongil?" Lothiriel repeated incredulously. "He would be an old man these days. I am forgetting you have lived that long."

Wren laughed, remembering what Estel looked like the last time she had seen him. Led by a letter from Gandalf, she had stopped in Bree, during her last travel to the Shire to visit Master Baggins with her three younger children. Thror had stayed in Erebor, already involved in the state matters with Thorin. Bofur and Dwalin went on the journey with her. It was just two years prior to the infamous birthday party.

Aragorn - and she still preferred the name he had worn when she met him - would be 87 years old now, the prime age for a Numenorean. Then, they had been sitting in the inn, in a private room, just the two of them; and she just could not stop scrutinizing his face. She did not wish to pry, but curiosity had been eating at her. Every time she had seen him, he would be different: just a boy when they had met; later a wild and prideful Chieftain of the Rangers; then a war hero, tired and tormented by the night terrors, after his raids in the service of the King of Rohan; and later, a tentatively hopeful man in love. In the Prancing Pony she saw a calm and road weary man. He told her he was to look after the Halflings upon the request of the Grey Wizard.

He offered her to later share part of their journey North. There had been a task given to him by Gandalf, he explained to her; and later Estel expected to be travelling to Mirkwood. Wren was sad to refuse; but she wanted to return to her kin hastily. While visiting Bilbo and Frodo she received a letter from Thorin confirming that Bofur's son had made his intentions towards Unna known. Matchmaking negotiations were to be held.

They spent almost the whole night, sitting and talking. It was one of those conversations that touched upon hundreds of subjects but at the end would be impossible to retell. Sometimes they would just sit in silence. Estel smoked, Wren was whetting her throwing daggers. Her eyes had been giving in by then, fogged by the same whiteness that had blinded her Grandmother many years agoShe did not want that night to end; a premonition that they would not meet again was lying heavily on her heart. And they had not, not in her lifetime.

"We have been quite amicable… in my time," Wren said to the Princess, tongue in cheek. "I will be most pleased to introduce you to each other."

Lothiriel nodded absent-mindedly.

* * *

They stepped outside of a passage, onto a large porch; and the first person whose eyes Wren caught was Master Bilbo Baggins, the honourable Hobbit of the Bag End. He finally looked age appropriate, Wren thought. His curly hair was white, and his friendly round face was wrinkled, the skin of it like parchment. Thorin who stood near him threw a glance towards Wren, and she saw a warm smile, probably invoked by something the Hobbit had said, fall off her husband's face.

Near them stood Frodo. Wren recognised him immediately. He looked just as youthful as she remembered him, though he was somewhat thinned and bore signs of severe exhaustion. Wren wondered if it was something in the Baggins blood - or in the air of the Shire - that kept the Hobbits so vernal for so many a year.

"Lady Wren! I cannot believe my eyes!" Bilbo cried out and rushed to her.

He picked up both her hands in his, and shook them vigorously. Wren laughed, for a moment forgetting all her worries. For a second there was no mysterious return from the afterlife, no threat growing in the East, no prophetic dreams, and foreign princesses - she was once again Wren of Enedwaith meeting an old friend.

"Oh my dear Bilbo," she laughed. "What a joy it is to see you! And you too, Frodo, my boy!"

She turned to the younger Hobbit and smiled to him widely. She had always found him the most gracious and gentle of persons, and thanked the Valar for bringing him into Bilbo's life.

He gave her a bow and a shy smile. She suddenly remembered that she presently looked younger than him.

"What a spectacle I must seem to you right now," she said with a small chuckle.

"I have seen quite a lot of marvels recently," Frodo said mysteriously; and a shadow ran across his face. Then his features lit up again, a soft smile grazing his lips. "But none brought me more joy than seeing you and Lord Thorin."

"Same flatterer, is he not?" Wren asked Bilbo and gave both Hobbits a wink.

"It seems it is time for the council to start, my heart," Thorin addressed her quietly; and she nodded.

There were chairs prepared for them, between their children's seats and Lord Gloin and his son. Wren greeted the Dwarves, all the appropriate words were spoken, just as the Khuzdul traditions demanded, and some were added, considering the unusual circumstances of their meeting.

And then Wren felt a gaze on herself. She turned and saw a familiar pair of greenish grey eyes.

"Estel!"

She rushed to him, crossing the porch, for once, so out of her own character, unconcerned with formalities. All of a sudden all the worries and fears were back, and her heart desperately sake security and succour. As if sensing her need, her friend opened his arms, also forgoing decorum - and he leaned and scooped her in an embrace.

" _Glawariel_ ," he muttered into the crown of her hair, the old moniker falling gravely from his lips. "Despite the ominous timing of your return, my heart sings, my old friend."

She remembered herself, and gently pulled away from him. His arms released her at once. Their eyes met, and she searched his face. She noticed the road weariness, and the tense corners of his lips; and then her eyes ran the silver, much more abundant on his temples; and then the dirty clothes.

"Oh how I wish it were different," he whispered.

Wren pressed her lips, hiding their trembling. She then stepped away from him, walked to her husband, and took her seat without lifting her eyes. She needed a few more moments to gather her bearings. A warm rough hand found hers; and she squeezed Dain's fingers with gratitude.

The council started. First, the news from Moria had been shared. Wren and Thorin had heard it already from their children; and her husband's expression confirmed to Wren that his mind was set on going to Khazad-dum. Even the repeated account of the messengers from Mordor that had visited Erebor could not change Thorin's determination. Wren assumed that it was his adamant certainty that the Lonely Mountain was secure and nothing could harm his people inside of it that allowed him to focus on his concern for Balin and the rest of the expedition. Lord Elrond's words that 'there was naught that Erebor could do, other than resist' made him nod, and Wren saw Unna lean to her Father's ear. He nodded to her words as well, and Wren understood that the daughter and the father were, as they say, blowing into the same bellows. Wren, on the other hand, was still certain her path did not lie either to Erebor, or even to Moria.

And that was when Lord Elrond started speaking of the Ring. None of its history had been known to Wren, and she sat holding her breath, everything trembling inside her. The darkness had been gathering, she had known and felt it; every person in the Middle Earth had - but suddenly the menace from the East, the shadow threatening to envelop their whole world, was as iff present, close, painfully close to them. Wren felt terror overcome her. Her thought first rushed to the unborn child under her heart, and then immediately to her four living children, doomed to face these times; and then she thought of her people, and their children.

She whipped head and met her husband's eyes. He had been looking at her for a while she realized, waiting for her to turn to him; and she saw the same dismay and dread in his eyes - but she also saw the determination and fortitude in the blue irises; and it suddenly was easier to breathe. She gave him a shaking smile, hoping he would understand how grateful she was at the moment to have him as her life companion. A minuscule twitch of his eyebrow and a hardly noticeable nod told her that no words were needed. He did understand.

At that moment the Gondorian stood up sharply and started talking. His voice was grave and hoarse; and his words were rash. He shared with the council the dream he had had - and Wren glanced at Lothiriel seeking confirmation to her suspicion that the dream the Princess had had was similar. Judging by the girl's widened eyes and pale face, the words of the poem in the dream were familiar to her.

Wren's consternation grew only stronger, the more the Gondorian spoke. Now it seemed that the darkness and the flames were swallowing the whole world Wren knew: Gondor, Erebor, Rivendell, and even the Shire. She watched Frodo grow pallid, and Bilbo stir impatiently in his chair. Lord Elrond listened, his lips pursed in distress. Gandalf was hiding his mouth behind a fisted hand.

More discussions followed. Bilbo had told his story; Aragorn and Legolas told of the creature Gollum that had been caught and then escaped Mirkwood. Now Wren understood what errand from the Wizard Estel had been fulfilling when she had seen him last.

Overall, it seemed to Wren that she was in the worst of nightmares one could find oneself. Everything she thought and knew seemed to now gain a new awful meaning: Estel's travels; the image of the Mirkwood Elves whom, unlike her husband, Wren had always enjoyed the company of; and especially the funny stories that Bilbo used to tell her children when they had been visiting him as tots; and which she loved to retell to those of them who had not had a chance to visit the Bag End in their early years.

And then the Ring was put forward; and Wren watched the tiny golden circle, and just could not believe that there it was, the source of such evil, the concentration of power and will that was capable of destroying them all.


	16. A Discord and An Agreement

"You are not listening to me!" Thorin roared; and if Wren had not spent years as a Queen, she would have rolled her eyes.

"I am," she answered.

She was; yet she could not claim that she cared much for what he was to say - not out of disrespect for his opinion, but out of sheer certainty that she knew exactly what he thought and what arguments he was to bring up. She sighed and looked aside.

Thorin had chosen his usual tactic in a debate. She had been invited to seat on a settee, and he was pacing in front of it like a caged beast. The overall effect of his brooding and stomping had been somewhat diminished by the fact that she sat a tad higher than she would in Erebor. Her feet did not reach the floor; and he almost had to look upwards to meet her eyes.

"Thorin, could we not make the runes dance?" she asked in exasperation, habitually slipping into Khuzdul. "You wish to go to Moria, and at the moment my presence here is nothing but an obstacle to you. Your mind is all but absorbed by the Mines. You wish to stuff me into the Mountain; to forget about everything but Khazad-dum, the foreign princesses and magic rings included; and to be the King and the Lord of the Khazad."

"I am not that narrow-minded," he exclaimed in indignation, and Wren could not hold a small derisive snort back. "I am not!" He stopped in front of her, his thick brows drawing even closer. "You paint me as a brute lacking any perspective! I know the world is in peril! But I also know what my duty is. I was brought back into this world to come to my people's aid."

"Valar help me, your blindness is even greater than I imagined!" Wren cried up. "Have you conveniently forgotten that we have been brought back on the shores of Dol Amroth, and not in the catacombs of our homeland? Or better so, right on the famous bridge of Khazad-dum?!"

That gave her husband a pause, Wren noted vengefully. He recovered quickly, though.

"We have fulfilled what we were to do, Wren. We have accompanied the Princess here, to Rivendell. I believe this was only a half of our quest, and now it is time to turn our attention to Moria," he said stately, and Wren huffed.

" _Your_ attention! You have quite a different plan for me." Wren pointed out.

"You are with child!" Thorin raised his voice even more. "With my child! And do not think me deaf and disregardful. I have heard what you said to me! That we were not to have another child. And now you are putting both of you in danger!"

For a second his face wavered; and Wren felt a pang of pity for him. She suddenly remembered the worry and the unease he had gone through when she had been expecting their firstborn, Thror, and had been forced to take a journey to the Grey Mountains.

"Thorin." Wren softened her tone. "I do not think that Lothiriel's purpose had been to simply come to Rivendell and inform the Council of the dream she had had. Boromir had had the same one. His presence would have been enough - to tell of the Ring, and of Aragorn's fate."

She noticed the irked jerk of the neck with which her husband had met the mentioning of Estel; but she didn't let irritation rise.

"There was more to Lothiriel's dream and her journey here," she continued convincing. "And would it not make sense for you to return alone if it were all about you coming to Balin's help?"

"Of course not!" Thorin chopped the air with his large hand. " _Khu_ _zd tada tabjabi d'ahlut yusth mud ashmur diya ins ubnanhu._ A wife is a man's greatest treasure. We are one and the same. If Mahal needed me to do his bidding, he would not send me without you. What would I do here alone?"

Wren was torn between the indignation of being treated as a bargaining chip in Thorin's hypothetical contract with Mahal the Maker; and feeling touched by his words and the sentiment behind them.

"Were you here without me, you would still fulfill your duty. As you always have," she said. "Thorin, please, listen to me..."

"Why would I?" he interrupted her. "You are not listening to me." He flared his nostrils. "You do not listen to reason, Wren! You are a Dwarven wife. You are to return to the safety of our Mountain."

His authoritative tone made her immediately forget her mawkishness of an instant ago.

"I am a being with an independent will! And of no small amount of magic power, Thorin," Wren gritted through her teeth. "Need I remind you that the said independent will and power had brought you back from the dead last time?" He opened his mouth, but she did not let him interrupt her again. "And it was my trusting what my heart and my gut had been telling me that had allowed me to achieve it. And I know, I truly know right now, Thorin, that I am to stay with Princess Lothiriel."

"Then you two are staying in Rivendell, with the cursed Elves!" he barked.

On one hand, it meant he was giving in, his certainty and his demands shaken - on the other hand, he was still commanding and assuming he was in the position of mapping everyone's future.

"I doubt she will want to stay here." Wren shook her head. "There is nothing for her here."

"She can do whatever she wants. I could not care less!"

Wren did not believe him, not fully. She knew he had grown fond of the girl, and of her squire as well, but of course the Dwarf was more than capable of sticking by his priorities.

Suddenly Wren felt nausea rise. This parturition was showing itself quite different from the previous ones. They all had varied of course, but altogether Wren carried children easily. This time it felt sharper, more prominent: she was more tired at times that she could ever recall; she felt famished, and then would feel an acute aversion to almost any food. Her mood undulated; all emotions were enhanced and hard to control. Altogether, Wren had to say her pregnancy this time was showing itself more… typical. There was more physicality to it; Wren was noticing the symptoms many of her patients had spoken of. And despite the circumstances she was in, and the turmoil she was going through, she savoured every moment of it.

She rose and went to the table to pour herself some water.

"Thorin, I am exhausted," she said and lifted a goblet to her lips. She drank the cool refreshing water, and sighed. "All I want now is a large dinner and rest."

"Of course." Thorin's voice mellowed and warmed up. He came up to her and stopped. "How are you faring, my heart?"

Wren turned and saw his face, a considerate expression on it. At the same time, having been married to the man for many decades, she caught the glimpse of what he thought he was hiding so well - the cunning glee at the fact that they were finally talking, given, just having an argument.

"I am certain I will be alright as soon as I have some sleep," she grumbled.

He inched closer to her, still not touching her. She sighed again. She did not want to give in. She knew that there were days and days of arguments in front of them; and that neither would be willing to accept the certainty the other felt. Were she to let him cross the distance she had put between them, she would be more vulnerable, while she needed to be firm and tenacious.

Wren put the goblet down.

"I shall go to Dain's rooms, to speak to him, and to have dinner," she said in a dull tone. "I wish you a good night."

"Wren..." he murmured, in exactly the velvet baritone he knew would affect her most.

She shook her head, and went out of the door. Her steps were hasty, she had to admit the cowardice. She had never been immune to his charms. Only separating herself from him would allow her to keep her restraint.

* * *

Dain was sitting in a large armchair, one ankle resting on the other knee. She entered his room, without a knock, as had always been their habit; and the slanted green and hazel coloured eyes flew up from a book in his hands.

He smiled to her widely.

"Amad..."

Wren rushed ahead, and he rose swiftly, just in time to catch her in his arms.

"It is worth it, all of it…" she whispered feverishly. "All of it. Just for this one embrace, I will endure anything."

His arms encircled her tightly, and she felt him nod.

"It is, amad. It most definitely is."

They stood silently for a few seconds, and then Wren stepped away, having gathered her bearings already.

"Your dinner has not gone cold yet," Dain said; and Wren laughed shakily.

"How do you always know everything, ghivashel?"

She walked to the table, and had to suppress a moan at the view of the aromatic stew in a deep silver dish, and a loaf of fresh bread, and a large platter of assorted pickled vegetables and fruit.

"You will be pleased to know, amad, I have asked for more of the tangy delicacies," Dain said with a chuckle. "Your condition surely demands them."

Wren had picked up a slice of pickled pear with her fingers, unconcerned with decorum, and bit into. This time a moan could not be held back.

"Does Unna know?" she asked, looking at Dain askance.

"Nay. I doubt Father will tell her either. It is your right after all." Dain shrugged.

"I will tell her tonight." Wren sat and plated some stew. "Have you eaten?"

"I have, thank you. And so has Unna." Dain sat on a chair at the table and poured himself some wine. "I gather she was waiting for the two of you to finish your conversation. She wants to talk to Father."

"About Moria, no doubt." Wren's voice sounded more bitter that she wished.

"She had always been Balin's favourite," Dain said, as usual as if leading a separate conversation.

Wren had always been among the few who could make the same connections as her second son, and who could see the meaning hiding behind his seemingly unrelated words.

"She feels responsible, you are right," Wren said between the bites. "She had supported him. All those long debates she had held with Thorin..." Wren shook her head. "Do you think they live? Him. Orin, Oin, other of our friends?"

Dain continued drinking his wine, his serene face unwavered; but Wren knew he had heard her. He was simply ruminating.

"The world is in movement, amad. All of it. Every corner. Nothing is left undisturbed."

Wren listened attentively. Dain's mind and intuition were finely attuned; and often it had been most beneficial to her to hear him out. He would put her thoughts and vague premonitions into words more often than not.

"We are all but the small currents in the stream of life," Dain continued, his eyes distant. "Each of us is too small to understand where the stream is running; but neither of us is unimportant." He blinked and focused his gaze on Wren. "What are we to do, amad?"

"I am intending to accompany Princess Lothiriel, whatever path she chooses," Wren answered simply.

"So shall I then." Dain smiled to her softly. "Unna is connected to Moria; she needs to bring the news of Father's return back to the Mountain. Thror has Erebor to care about. Othin is preparing for war. You and I, amad, will follow the flow."

Their eyes met - so similar in their shape and colour - and Wren gave her son a small nod and went back to her food.


	17. Rise and Shine

On the day after the Council Lothiriel woke up feeling ill. All her joints ached; and a dull pain resided behind her temples. She rose from her bed, and walked to the balcony. Her room overlooked one of the largest waterfalls of the Valley of Imladris, and she stood and watched the white froth curl and rush downwards.

An Elf came into her room, allowed in after a considerate knock. He put a tray on the table, and left with a small bow. The breakfast interested the Princess not. She threw a quick glance at the platters and went back to her grim pondering.

Another knock came to the door; and she once again invited the unknown visitor. This time, it was Aglahad, who walked in. He greeted her; and she cringed, without turning her face to him, irked by his eagerness and curiosity.

"My lady, what was decided yesterday? What was spoken of?"

As much as he tried he could not hold back his emotions, nor to stay within the boundaries of his position. Lothiriel finally faced him. Immediately her haughty irritation was replaced by some sort of a childish misery. Aglahad was a familiar face, he was kindred; while nothing else was; and perhaps for the first time in her life she wanted to forget any pride and dignity, and to seek consolation in an embrace with someone other than her parents. She had to fist her hands to stop herself from a rush gesture or word.

"Nothing that concerns you, Aglahad," she answered coldly, just as her stature prescribed. "Once I know what my next step is, I will inform you."

She made sure that her expression showed how much he was forgetting himself by even asking such questions. The lad studied her face, and then with a small shake of his head he started walking out of the room.

Lothiriel felt her eyes prickle. The same yearning for the known and ordinary tortured her heart, and she suddenly remembered being in his arms in the village of the Druendain. She had burnt then, but some memories had remained. He had carried her into the low dark hut, and she could recall him sitting near her. The earlier memories - of him in the house of her Father, seeing him on the grounds, growing up together - made her suffering even more acute.

Lothiriel clenched her teeth and waited the door to close behind him. And then she rushed back to her bed, and fell on it. The pain bloomed only sharper behind her closed eyes; and she begged sleep to come.

* * *

She was awoken several hours later, as much as she could judge by the position of the Sun. Lady Wren walked into the room, in her usual swift light step.

"Valar help me, you have not eaten. And if I am not mistaken, you have chosen to stay in bed, not to face the world." The redhead looked Lothiriel over. "I have not expected such defeatism from you, my child."

Lothiriel felt a sudden surge of anger. The woman was not Lothiriel's mother - or no one to her, to think of it. She had no right to judge and to reprimand - or to express any opinion whatsoever.

"How can I help you, my lady?" Lothiriel asked in an unpleasant tone.

"You could tell me where you are intending to travel now," the woman answered, and strode up to Lothiriel's breakfast. "Maiar be merciful, I am famished, once again. Could I, possibly..." She pointed at the food with her eyes; and Lothiriel made a dismissive wave with her hand.

The woman pinched a slice of bread and quickly threw it into her mouth.

"I have anticipated you would feel disheartened, my dear," Lady Wren said, and then picked up a slice of some fruit from a plate and bit into it with a visible pleasure. "You looked quite lost at the Council."

"My presence there was utterly unnecessary." Lothiriel knew she sounded like a petulant child, but could not rein her mood. She plopped in the nearest chair.

Lady Wren chewed, her eyes fixed on Lothiriel, and then she shrugged. "I shall not argue with you. I too think you did not have to be there."

Lothiriel pursed her lips. She did not require any consolation - but the glaring lack of it stung.

"I had of course given it a thought. It seems that our arrival here served only one purpose. It was perhaps the only way to get rid of my husband," Lady Wren said pensively between small bites of the fruit; and Lothiriel's eyes flew to the woman's face in astonishment. "I am jesting, my dear. But only at part. It was his destiny to arrive here, to hear the news of our kind, and to venture into a journey to Moria. Your destiny is… unclear."

Lothiriel drummed her fingers on the arm rest.

"The only thing I am certain of," Lady Wren continued, "is that my path does not lie to Moria. Neither does it lead to my homeland. So, I am asking you again, what are your plans?"

"I will go back to Dol Amroth," Lothiriel grumbled.

Simply pronouncing these words hurt. She felt, just as the woman had said, defeated; useless, aimless. She thought of her Father, of how she had worried him unnecessarily; of how she had disobeyed him - and for nothing.

Lady Wren crunched with another piece; and then nodded.

"Very well. I will accompany you and Aglahad. And my son Dain will come with us."

"Accompany me? To where?"

"To Dol Amroth," the redhead answered, her face calm.

"But why?" Lothiriel asked in bewilderment.

"Because we all are small currents in a large stream," the woman answered, and suddenly laughed.

Lothiriel wondered if the redhead had lost her mind. And then she remembered that Lady Wren was with child. Perhaps, some sort of mental ailment had befallen her in her state.

"Let me know when you are ready to leave Rivendell," the woman added, and wiped her fingers on a napkin. "It is all up to you. I will just follow whatever decisions you make."

Lothiriel opened her mouth to ask whether the woman was indeed serious - but then she paused, struck by the realisation that if Lady Wren were to accompany her, Prince Dain would be joining them.

While Lothiriel struggled with her thoughts, Lady Wren was already gone.

* * *

 _Seven days later..._

Wren lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. She did not feel afflicted or uneasy, but sleep did not come.

The week that had passed since the Council had been rather peaceful. Lothiriel was still hiding in her rooms. Wren had seen Aglahad wander the passages and balconies of Rivendell, looking like a lost pup. She had eventually lost her patience and sent him to the rooms that her husband occupied. She knew that the boy would find both Thorin and Dain there; and he would be taken care of.

Wren meanwhile had been fully intent on recuperating and taking care of her changing body. While waiting for Lothiriel to be ready for the return journey to Dol Amroth, Wren ate, slept, and went for walks. Estel had gone, right after the Council, on some errand given to him by Lord Elrond. Legolas had gone with him. Most of Wren's strolls were either in solitude; or with Dain.

Wren spent some time with Bilbo. She knew that the younger Hobbits had discussed their plans among themselves; and it had been decided that they would accompany Frodo on his mission. Wren had taken quite a liking to the three of them, Sam especially. She felt at peace near him. His mood was even; and his disposition calm and consistent. Just as Bilbo in those years she had known him, the Hobbits had the air of stability and homeliness around them, despite the perils they had already faced on their quest. Talking to them was like having a cup of tea in front of a cosy fireplace. Wren had almost forgotten what it was like. Since her return, she had seen no domesticity.

Mostly, she would try to spend as much time as possible with Unna - but the presence of her Father was an obstacle. He, Lord Gloin, his son Gimli, and Unna kept having small councils regarding Moria; and Wren would prefer to avoid Thorin as much as possible. The unresolved dispute hung above them like a ring of pipeweed smoke.

Yet, Wren had found that her relationship with her daughter had been miraculously improved by Wren's departure and return. Previously, it seemed to have lacked cordiality, warmth, which Wren had always felt and received in her bond with her sons. Unna was a true daughter of the Khazad. She was stern, practical, and obstinate. She was the perfect child for Thorin, Thrain's son Oakenshield. Wren had found Unna's temper challenging. These days the two of them seemed to be more willing to overcome their differences, cherishing the added time together they had been gifted with. They had long talks, about everything and nothing in particular; and Unna shared a few walks with Wren.

Wren's body had been gaining strength - and with it the disarray in her thoughts had ebbing. It was past-midnight, and a sudden clarity came over her. And then she rolled off the bed, picked up a robe from the chair near it, wrapped herself, and hastily walked out of the room. She needed to speak to her husband.

She passed the silent, dimly lit halls, nodding to a rare passer by. She thought she was quite an indecorous picture - a disheveled woman in a state of undress; but her feet carried her quickly, and her mind was set.

She stopped in front of his rooms, and hesitated. She felt like knocking - while she had never had to. Strange amusement filled her thoughts. She had been with the man for decades; had seen him in her dreams, in most intimate settings; she had given herself to him and had accepted his body then, in the realm between life and death; she had refused his hand in marriage, when he had come back to the world of the living and had found her sick and vulnerable in the village of Chief Beorn; she had fallen in love with him again, having spent time with him in Erebor, while resisting his charm to the last drop of her blood; she had propositioned him intoxicated by mistake; she had laid with him in a pantry in the infirmary of the City of Dale; and she had become his wife, in a marriage that they had consummated, then almost destroyed, and then she had been standing in front of the doors of his bedroom in yet another attempt to reconcile with him. Just as now, her hand had hovered an inch away from the wood of a door then; and her heart boomed in her chest; and her breathing shook. And then they had been married for six decades, he had fathered her four children; they had fought, and made up; and they had loved each other dearly, and adored each other, and appreciated each other; and had driven each other mad; and had enthralled each other all over again; and so much had happened… and here she was once again in front of his door, unsure of where they stood and what she was to do. And once again she was nothing but a girl in love; innately mistrustful and cautious… but hopeful against all reason.

Wren pushed the door half open and slipped inside. The rooms were dark, and she tiptoed to the bed chamber. She could see a large form on the bed, and she walked up and touched it. It turned out to be a bundle of covers, with no body under them. A nervous disbelieving chuckle burst out of her. She had imagined hundreds of possible ways this could have gone - ranging from him rejecting her and throwing her out of his rooms; and him professing his undying love and dragging her under these very covers - but she had not expected to find an empty bed.

"Wren?" the voice behind her asked; and she twirled, pressing her hand over her frantically beating heart.


	18. Soon We Say Goodbye

**The chapter is dedicated to reader Riss94! Feel better soon! And thank you for still reading my stories after all these years!**

 **Cheers xx**

 **Katya**

* * *

Thorin was sitting in a large armchair, near a window, the moonlight streaming into the room. Wren giggled at the absurd thought that he could not have chosen a better place to display himself. The silver light gave the white streaks above his forehead a pearly shimmer; shadows lay on the noble features, striking and sombre. There was a goblet in his hand. Wren could not see the expression on his face.

"Thorin..."

He did not move, and she stepped to him - and then she bent down and picked up the goblet and pushed it on the window sill. And then she climbed on his lap.

"I came to have an argument with you, my love," she murmured.

His bright eyes were right in front of her; and then she saw his left eyebrow rise. The soft lips under the black whiskers of the beard twitched.

"I realized that I would rather have arguments with you every moment of every day than be without you," she whispered and leaned to his lips.

"I do not wish to argue, ushaktul." His exhale brushed at her lips. His breath smelled of wine, but it was fresh and she could see he was sobre.

"We will have to." She placed one fleeting kiss on the corner of his mouth. "But perhaps, later..."

His arms went around her; and it was when she realized she had been cold. The heat coming from his body made her shiver in pleasure.

"Later," he agreed; and caught her mouth in a deep greedy kiss.

* * *

"Valar help me, I should have done it days ago," she murmured and rose above him, supporting herself on her right elbow. Her left hand was lying on his chest, and she clawed at the scorching skin and the thick black hair.

The bright blue eyes opened; and he gave her a small smirk.

"Am I once again being treated as a medicine against nausea?" he asked.

Wren nodded enthusiastically, making him chuckle.

"But is this not better?" She leaned in and placed a long kiss on his neck. The uneven bottom line of his beard scratched at her lips, and she tasted the salt on his skin. "Than squabbling."

"I have never wished to 'squabble' with you, my heart." She caught the sardonic tone hiding in his warm voice. "And I was not the one to isolate oneself from one's spouse."

Wren chewed her bottom lip.

"Isolating myself from you made disobeying you easier," she muttered.

He suddenly guffawed, and petted her bare backside under the covers.

"Do not be ridiculous, ushaktul. You have never obeyed me! Isolated from me, or sleeping in my bed, you have always had the mind of your own." He once again cocked one eyebrow. "That what makes you the perfect Dwarven wife."

"Last time we argued you said a Dwarven wife would go to the Mountain, just as her husband had told her."

Wren leaned in and kissed the warm cheekbone above the beard. She had been starved for him, she was now realising. She just could not get enough. Or perhaps, the impending separation was the reason. She had always prized herself on appreciating him, for never taking him for granted, in all the years of their marriage, since she had always thought having him in her life had been a miracle - but at the moment, exceptionally acutely, she just could not stop touching and kissing him.

"A Dwarven wife would do as her duty and her intuition prescribed," he said, and squinted when she kissed his temple. He then slightly turned his head, letting her kiss the other cheek. "Which is what you are intending to do."

Wren stopped her cuddling and gawked at him.

"You should have told me you agree with me!" she exclaimed, and then lightly punched his bare shoulder.

"Firstly, I do not agree with you. I have simply accepted your intentions. It does not make me any happier about them." He gave her one of his customary pointed looks, under the raised eyebrow. "And secondly, I have… tried. I came to your door last night. Stood in front of it for quite a while, to be honest; as much as with my hand lifted… but never knocked." For a second embarrassment coloured his featured, which Wren found endearing. "We have little time left..."

She nodded and sighed.

"That is why I came, Thorin." She brushed the tip of her index finger to his soft bottom lip. "Neither of us will change their mind. And I would rather spend the time left with you, either fighting, or…" She trailed away.

"Or?" His voice dropped, suggestively; and she pushed her fingers into his mane, behind the right ear and lowered her mouth on his.

Perhaps, she required more of that nausea medicine he had mentioned before. He seemed to think so as well.

* * *

She was nodding off, her body sweetly tired; when his lower voice made her open her eyes.

"Were you alone, I would have let you go without a word of argument," he said.

Wren once again rose on her elbow, her palm under her jaw. He turned his head and looked at her. It took a few seconds of her sarcastic staring into his eyes to make him smirk and mutter, "Well, perhaps with just a few words."

"Thorin, just a few weeks ago you were brawling with the Chief of the Wild Men like a stag whose territory has been invaded. Do not pretend to be less possessive and authoritative than we all know you are."

"You are with child, Wren," he said, softly.

"I remember, my heart," she quipped back; but then saw the anxious light in his eyes. "Thorin, we… we simply have no choice. The world is in peril; it is burning in the fires of war, which will only spread. And I am just one small person and do not flatter myself that I can make much change… but we all have a role to play and a duty to fulfill. Even you, my heart, as much as you would hate to think of yourself this way," she said with a warm loving smile, "You are just one Dwarf. And your path is clear to you. Just as much as mine is to me. We have no choice," she repeated.

His lips twisted, in an expression of open raw pain, always hidden, only shown to her and so very rarely.

"What if I never see you again?" he whispered; and then his hand shifted under the covers and she felt the rough hot palm on her stomach.

He did not need to explain. She too could easily imagine how their goodbyes here, in Rivendell could become their last. A long and dangerous journey lay in front of each of them, either of them knowing just a few first steps.

Wren had nothing reassuring to say to him, so she kissed him tenderly and whispered into his mouth, "It is a girl. I can hear her in my mind."

When she lifted her face, she saw tears welling in his brilliant cerulean eyes. She expected him to hide them, even after the years of intimacy and familiarity between them - but he blinked and they ran, down his temples, into the white streaks in his dark waves.

"What shall we name her?" he asked her.

"I do not know." Wren smiled to him. "Unlike the previous ones this one does not seem to have any preferences. When we are back in Erebor, we will need to search the lore."

She kept her voice light and even, but they both knew the suggestion was empty since no certainty surrounded their future.

"And if she is born before… you are back to Erebor?" he asked, in the same feigned mundane tone.

"We can always name her Hildur, after that mad great grandmother of yours. The temper seems to be quite similar, though perhaps I am just imagining it." Wren laughed quietly. "What do the legends call her? 'The Firestorm of Erebor?"

"A hot head then?" he asked and then picked her up under her arms and moved her to lie on top of him. "Excellent. All our children are far too reasonable."

"Only to the measure of a Dwarf. A Man or an Elf would see them as obstinate, traditionalist, and bigoted."

"In short, the perfect Dwarves," he summarized, and they both laughed.

It felt marvellous to forget everything for a second and just be them, to banter and jest just as they always did; but then Wren sighed and closed her eyes.

"We shall leave as soon as the Princess is ready," she said quietly. "Dain is travelling with me."

Thorin was silent for a long moment, and then his chest rose in a deep sigh.

"I am glad he is going with you. It comforts me."

"Me too."

Wren slid the tips of her fingers on his skin, tracing the white jagged scars hiding in the hair. She knew each one of them, and her heart ached dully at the thought that had come to her mind ever so often: so many times in his life, he had been close to never coming to be with her, to perishing, without her knowing him. And yet here he was, in her arms, his eyes softly studying her face.

"We shall see each other again," she suddenly said with certainty.

He gazed at her for a few instants, silently. She was sure he understood what she meant.

"You cannot know it," he whispered.

"Nay, I cannot," she said, her voice growing firmer. "But I can promise."

She sat up and placed her hand over his heart.

"I swear to you, Thorin, Thrain's son Oakenshield. You and I and all our children will return to Erebor safely, and we shall live happily ever after."

He emitted a surprised chuckle.

"I am not jesting!" she exclaimed, and grabbed his nose with her other hand. "Listen to me! I am making an oath here. Even if the snows on Misty Mountains melt, and River Running reverses its course, I am coming back to my Mountain, and all my children, and my husband as well."

He sat up as well making her let go of his nose, which he pressed to hers.

"I have not known you to make empty promises," he murmured, and quickly kissed her lips.

"And I am not intending to start." She lifted her chin and gave him an haughty glance. "We shall see each other again, and our home."

* * *

Wren and her companions stayed in Rivendell for the following two moons. The Princess seemed unwilling to make any decisions. She had grown apathetic, mostly wandering the halls of the Elven dwelling. Wren assumed that was the melancholy after the sickness that the Princess had endured; but also the feeling of failure and uselessness that Lothiriel seemed to emanate. Wren disagreed. She was certain that all of them were exactly where they needed to be, and their purpose would become evident soon. She did not interfere, though. She was not the Princess' guardian; and it was generally not in her nature to meddle.

After some time Dain started joining Lothiriel in her walks; and according to him, 'she was now less skittish around him.' Wren would choose a different word - 'flustered' perhaps - but the Princess and Wren's son were indeed growing closer, which Wren felt grateful for.

The delay was very much to Wren's liking, in all honesty. She would prefer to spend as much time with Thorin and Unna as possible. Wren observed the preparations of those who were to leave Imladris soon. The Ring, which weighed like a giant shadow on Wren's mind, was to be taken to Mordor and destroyed. The young Hobbits had decided to join Frodo. Gandalf was to lead the way.

Estel was travelling to Gondor, with Boromir. Wren spent several evenings in the company of her old friend, with the Gondorian joining them twice. It took Wren longer than usual to arrive at her opinion on a personality, but eventually she had grown to like Boromir. There was something calming in his single-mindedness, his overwhelming sense of duty, and his rashness. Perhaps, all these qualities were simply familiar. Wren had been married to a man of similar disposition - given, Thorin, son of Thrain was a much more complex person than the Gondor's captain.

With melancholy, Wren had found Estel rather distant in the days preceding the company's departure. It was to be understood. The destiny he had been avoiding in the long years of his life had caught up with him. The sword of Elendil had been reforged, and had taken place on his belt. Wren was a friend from the time of his childhood - and neither Estel, nor Strider were allowed to exist now. Aragorn, son of Arathorn was to depart to the White Citadel now.

Thorin was to join Gimli on his journey to Moria. Unna had brought with her plans and maps, and the three Dwarves spent hours pondering and discussing the Mines.

And then, on the twenty fifth day of December of the 3018th Year of the Sun the ten companions were ready to leave Rivendell.


	19. Not Just My King

**Author's Note:**

 **You can read more about my recent creative struggles and exciting NEWS on my blog (kolmakov dot ca ), but the gist is such:**

 **1\. I have severe arthritis in the joints of my fingers, which has been flaring up recently like there's no tomorrow. It prevents me from typing and drawing (sleeping and holding a tea mug as well, but that's beside the point);**

 **2\. I decided to limit my writing, and regroup my pages/accounts/stories;**

 **3\. In the nearest future I'm planning to continue updating one story on Wattpad (currently it's "Official Town Business") and one story on ("Four Corners of Middle Earth");**

 **4\. Starting next month I'm planning to hire an editor/formatter/publisher, and I'll be turning ALL of my complete stories (with the exception of purely fanfiction, which are actually pretty few), e.g. "Due North," "Jack in the Box," and once it's finished "Frost Over!" (former "Ice, Ice Baby!") into Kindle books.**

 **5\. They will be available on Kindle Unlimited. If you have it, stay tuned!**

 **6\. I'm planning to turn my ORIGINAL Wren/Thorin fanfiction (Timeline #1) into independent fantasy/romance and post it on Kindle. I'll be changing only what is definitely Tolkien-ish there; the plot and whatever details are purely mine will stay intact.**

 **As usual I'll keep you posted! You can follow my writing Facebook page: facebook dot com /katyakolmakov**

 **If you're still reading my stories, THANK YOU! And I LOVE YOU!**

 **Love you all ardently,**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

Wren did not sleep the night before the company was to leave Rivendell. She pretended to be asleep, when Thorin slid under the covers, after his bath and and the last preparations. She lay silently for a long time, in his arms, listening to his breathing. She was intending to turn around later, to watch him, to see his face, to memorize it, although she was certain that every line of it was known to her - but she just was not sure that he had fallen into slumber, despite his immobility and the slow even heartbeat. And then she realized that if he was indeed awake, they were wasting time they could spend together. She slowly turned and met his wide open eyes. She rushed into a kiss, with a greedy moan; and he met her ardently.

After long passionate love, he slept, and she finally had her chance. She did not allow her thoughts to linger on the morning ahead of them, and the days to come. She drank his features, the soft line of the lips, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the shadow lying on the cheekbone. Even in the darkness of the room his skin had a warm colour to it, and she knew she would remember how it felt under her lips. Wren did not allow self-pity to flood her; and yet the irony of once again spending a night gazing at the man whom she was perhaps destined to lose did not escape her.

Cold light of dawn crawled into the room; and Wren lay in someone else's bed, away from her home, her fingers gently wrapped around the hand of her husband, on the sheets between their bodies.

Thorin stirred, and slowly opened his eyes.

"You should rest," he muttered; and pulled his hand out of hers to rub his eyes.

"I have," Wren lied.

Thorin rolled off the bed, and walked to the bath chambers without a look at her. Before he turned his face away from her, she had caught a glimpse of a tense frown and the thin line of his pressed lips. Nothing had to be said. She knew he felt just as anguished as she did.

* * *

They ate the morning meal with their children, in silence; and then it was suddenly the time to go down to the great Hall where the company was to say their goodbyes. The cool air of Imladris and the sleepless night were making Wren shiver, while her eyes burnt and her skin felt flushed.

While Thorin stepped aside with Dain, their faces leaned to each other in a conversation, their voices hushed, Wren approached Aragorn. He sat with his head bowed to his knees.

"Estel," she called softly; and he lifted his face and met her eyes.

Wren smiled to him softly. She did not know what to say.

"Will you ask me to look after him?" he whispered, and Wren gave out a shaky laugh, low and hardly audible.

"Of course not. He is not your ward - and he would never want to be anyone's." She leaned and softly touched the Man's shoulder. "I only wanted to wish you luck, my friend."

He nodded silently, and Wren softly patted his shoulder. There was nothing else to say. She could only hope he understood. He carried the weight on his shoulders that she could hardly imagine; and her heart ached for him.

Wren turned and saw Dain lean to his Father. Thorin opened his right arm; and the younger Dwarf pressed into him. Their embrace was tight; and Wren saw Dain squeeze his eyes, his face anguished. He had always been the most emotional out of her children; his fierce love, expected to be born in a Dwarven heart, was expressed much more freely than by any other Khuzd Wren knew, including her other children.

Wren quickly looked away, fearing to lose her control. Instead she walked to the wall where Unna stood with the rest of the emissaries from Erebor. The Khazad were silent. Unna stretched her hand to Wren, in an uncharacteristic sentimental gesture; and squeezed Wren's fingers.

"Please, stand with me, amad," the girl said softly; and Wren almost smiled, gathering that her daughter was trying to express her support, at the expense of showing herself maudlin.

"I am quite alright, my heart," Wren said quietly. "Thank you."

Dain moved away from his Father; and Wren exchanged places with him.

"And here we are again, my little bird," Thorin said, and an untimely grin played on his lips. "Saying our goodbyes again."

"As long as it is not a farewell," Wren grumbled. Her voice was scratchy.

Thorin tilted his head lightly; and the blue eyes sparkled.

"When has it ever been for us?" His voice dropped, velvet, familiar, so very dear.

Wren rushed ahead embracing him; and as much as she fought, a quiet sob fell off her lips.

"I don't… want to..." she whispered. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her into him. "I know I need to be strong… I know my duty… But I cannot… keep giving you up..."

She made sure the two of them were the only ones to hear her unseemly words.

"You never have to," he whispered back; and the hot heavy hand, in a glove, lay on her nape. "I am yours. Always have been. Always will be."

Wren gave herself three breaths - to cherish his closeness, the embrace, to let her body soak in the familiar warmth and the sense of belonging she knew near him. And then she stepped back, painfully aware of how reluctantly he let her go. She could not lift her eyes, hiding how red, full of tears they were; and he picked up her chin with his curled index finger. She met his calm gaze.

"Nê nai'kir," he whispered. _Never apart._

"Nê nai'kir," she answered, like an oath.

He then nodded, and a small smile grazed his lips. Wren half expected a kiss - and feared it. It would be her undoing. She saw his soft lips twitch, under the black whiskers; and then he dropped his hand and took a small step away from her. She could not say if she was relieved or disappointed.

More goodbyes were said, but Wren could not bring herself to approach her husband again. The Fellowship left through the tall filigree doors and into the coolness of the morning. Wren watched Frodo hesitate outside the gate - and then he took a deep breath and started walking. His nine companions followed.

Wren turned away from the gate one of the first. She was a warrior's wife; she knew that the longer one looked after those who had left, the faster pain would take root in the heart, the harder it would be to look away and turn to the everyday deeds.

When she was going up the stairs to go inside, she looked over her shoulder and saw Dain and Unna stand side by side, their eyes fixed on the road that had taken their Father away. Wren pressed her lips bitterly. Surely it had been a cruel irony: the two Dwarves had just miraculously gotten their adad back - only to lose him again.

Dain picked up his sister's hand and pressed it to his chest.

Wren walked inside, wrapping a shawl tightly around her shoulders. Something dully ached in her right side, behind the ribs. She reminded herself she had a life growing inside her - and she went in search of a breakfast.

* * *

Lothiriel found the red haired woman on one of the balconies. The wife of the Dwarven King sat at a small table, untouched food in front of her. Lady Wren was twirling a small silver spoon in her long pale fingers.

"Lady Wren?"

The redhead slowly turned her face to Lothiriel. The woman was wan, and her eyes burn feverishly.

"If I could request some privacy today, Lothiriel, I would be much obliged." Lady Wren's voice was bleak. "I will be ready to discuss our travel plans and answer any questions you have - tomorrow. Today I need time. To grieve the absence of my beloved."

Lothiriel gave her a confused look. These were not the words she would use to describe Lady Wren's predicament. Of course, they all worried and they are feared; but there was no quest more important and honourable than the one that lay before the Fellowship.

" _Thorin."_

 _Wren pushed a hand under the covers on her bed. It took several seconds of rummaging in the layers of heavy fabrics and furs to finally find what she was looking for. The heat licked her skin. She wiggled her fingers. She could have been wrong but it seemed to be a limb. She dug some more, and now she was certain. She had found her husband's leg._

" _Thorin..."_

 _The hillock of covers shifted, and a displeased grunt was heard from under it._

" _You asked me to wake you earlier today," Wren reminded the heap. "You wanted to spar with Dwalin, remember? Before he leaves to the Iron Hills."_

 _Another disgruntled noise came from under the blankets, and the leg escaped her grip._

" _Thorin..."_

" _I rather you came back..." she heard his raspy voice. "Why are you up?"_

" _Because this is the hour I always get up. In fact I have already washed and had my coffee," she said feigning haughtiness. "While my King is still lazing in his bed."_

 _The covers wavered, and suddenly a large hand leaped from under them, wrapped around her wrist, and she was jerked down, and towards him._

" _No! I have just taken a bath!" she squealed. "You will muss my hair! And I am all fresh, and you are..."_

 _She did not get to finish. She was trapped in the hot cavern under the covers, full of his heat and the smell of his skin and their lovemaking from the night before._

" _You are fresh," he rumbled, and pressed an open mouthed kiss to her stomach. Her body jolted. "You smell so good."_

" _These are just soaps, and..."_

 _She once again could not finish, interrupted by his scorching palm that brushed her leg, from under the knee and up, snaking under the skirts of her home gown._

" _Thorin, you wanted to spar! And now you are just trying to weasel out of it."_

 _She writhed, but that only gained her a low chuckle from him. His greedy hands seemed to be everywhere now. She jolted when the tips of his fingers ran the inside of her thigh._

" _I am not trying to weasel out of anything. I am greeting my wife."_

" _Sweet talk," she muttered, already almost surrendering. "Thorin..."_

 _As she knew, climbing out of his embrace was a hopeless endeavour; so she tried backing off, wiggling her backside in the air._

 _He pounced on her, like some large wild animal; with a loud preposterous roar; all four extremities wrapping around her._

" _No! Mine!" he growled._

 _She started laughing, from his frolics, and from how giddy and enamoured she felt._

 _She could remind herself that they had been married for a decade, and had three children - but would not that be just another reason to cherish how much fun they could still have together?_

" _You need to go to spar," she said, her voice growing breathy. He was kissing her stomach now, bunching up her skirts. Wren stuck her head out from under the covers for a gulp of fresh air. She could see him move under the furs and the velvet. He was shifting lower. "You said you… Mahal help me… That you need to… Because you want to… Oh Mahal, yes, please, right there..."_

 _He chuckled again, his mouth pressed into her flesh, and she moaned loudly from the vibration. And then she felt the warm slickness of his tongue against her skin._

" _Thorin..."_

" _Still want me to go to the grounds?" he asked, his voice muffled by the sheets. "Or..."_

" _Do not dare!" Wren ordered, and arched on the bed._

" _But I need to train," he drew out pensively, and the beard scratched her thigh. "What if I have to go to a war, or something… A quest… A hunt..."_

" _Shut up, and go back to what you were doing!" she hissed at him._

" _I will grow fat and old... and the armour will not fit anymore..." he sing-songed - but followed her order._

 _Three hours later, she lifted her head off his chest and looked at him. His eyes were closed, a small smile playing on his lips._

" _Dwalin will not be pleased," Wren jabbed, and bit into his shoulder playfully._

 _Thorin hummed agreeing._

" _He will understand," he added in a few seconds. "He has an enticing wife as well."_

 _Wren giggled. "Well, thank you, my lord. What brought this on?"_

 _He shook under her, in his usual full-bodied laugh that she loved so much._

" _I am complimenting you, say 'thank you,' my lady." He then opened one eye, and smiled to her lopsidedly. "And you were right. I just felt lazy to get up."_

" _Well, it is not as if you ended up being idle," she said. "You have… trained with your sword for a few hours."_

 _He guffawed, and gave her backside a juicy smack._

" _Vixen."_

Lady Wren's slanted eyes focused on Lothiriel. The irises were angry green.

"Tomorrow, Lothiriel. Tomorrow I will be a Queen, and the wife of a man who went on a noble quest, and a warrior myself," Lady Wren say. "But right now I just want to go to my chamber and cry, all duty and decorum be damned."

She then quickly rose on her feet and left.


End file.
